Shards of the Past
by DarkSoccerKnight7012
Summary: Your eyes do not deceive you. This is an update. In Twelve:Rifts, Marche and clan visit Baguba Port, where the mysterious Kain placed Llednar's warehouse. What secrets are hidden in this warehouse, and will they meet Llednar himself? R and R if you dare..
1. Chase Through Salikawood

The Mirror Of Lucerne Chapter 1: Chase Through Salikawood

NOTES: I do not own anything, except for my characters' personalities, as I am pretty sure that every name I use here is in the game. In fact, I am sure of it. Kudite stone may be my invention, but I don't know. Anyway, please read and review, as this is my first real fanfic. I appreciate feedback!

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The forest rushed by as Nume ran for his life. The leaves of Salikawood crunched underfoot as he dove through the deep underbrush, running through shafts of sunlight and breaking them like stained glass. Ahead of him, the midday sun glistened brilliantly off of Kudik Peaks. Through the pass was Muscadet, his destination.

Behind him, the footsteps of his twin Viera huntresses were barely audible over the whistling wind and crunch of leaves. But they were surely there; every now and again an arrow would thud into a tree near his head. How fortunate that the Archers of Clan Dip were poor shots.

He ducked under a fallen tree-trunk and veered off to the left, hearing the trickle of water. He wondered…

Two more arrows hit the trees as Nume dive-rolled through the brush and splashed into the creek, getting his loose Ninja garb soaked. Finally, he reached the middle of the creek and turned to face his opponents.

Three arrows splashed into the creek on Nume's right. Even standing still they couldn't hit him. It would have almost been comical, if it weren't for the life and death nature of the situation.

Suddenly, the three of them were standing in the little valley, the pursuers and the pursued eyeing each other intensely.

One of the Archers nocked an arrow. "It doesn't have to end this way, you know," she said. "Just give us back the book, and I'll intercede on your behalf in an audience with the Major. Maybe you won't be executed…" Her mouth curled into a cruel sneer.

Nume shook his head. "That still leaves us with the problem of you capturing me. I'm afraid I can't allow that to happen." With that, he clasped his gloved hands together in a strange fashion, moving as fast as the wind. "Ninjutsu—Water Veil!"

At once, two tendrils of water from the creek reached up and wrapped themselves around the Archers, covering their mouths to silence them. Nume didn't wait to see it happen though; he turned and ran in the direction of the towering Peaks, dodging arrows as he disappeared into the forest again, still tailed by the persistent Viera.

Arrows whizzed past Nume's head, a little closer than they had before. Indeed, the forest was getting thinner before him as the ground became uneven; cracked and buckled as the black Kudite stone began to rise up into the tall spires known as the Kudik Peaks. Less and less cover was not what Nume needed most at the moment. He glanced frantically around for anything, anything at all, that would help him escape. Then, suddenly, he saw it. Without so much as a thought, he stopped dead in his tracks. The archers were taken aback, their next shots wildly missing the mark.

Then Nume vanished. The perplexed Viera looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. "Should we look for him," asked one.

"We probably should. The Major won't like it if this thief gets away with the Major's book.

That settled, the two nocked fresh arrows and crept cautiously forward. Slowly they stepped, stopping for every little sound they heard. Finally they reached the place where their quarry had vanished: a black holed in the forest floor.

"It looks like…a cave, Brenda," said one.

"Of course it does, Maureen!" Brenda shook her head and set her bow down, bending over the hole so as to have a better look.

"What do you see, Brenda?"

"Blackness, that's what!" Brenda's voice blasted irritably out of the cave mouth and reverberated through the forest. "Hold my legs so I can go further down."

Maureen put her bow down, grabbed her partner's long, skinny legs, and dangled Brenda over the edge. "Can you see anything now?"

"Not really. Just something shiny."

"Shiny? What could be shiny in a cave?"

Maureen got her answer as Nume tossed a shuriken up to the top of the hole. Frantically flipping his fingers, he used the art of Metal Veil.

The shuriken instantly disintegrated into a dust cloud that shot out of the cave, momentarily blinding both Brenda—swatting wildly at the air—and Maureen, who promptly dropped a screaming Brenda headfirst into the hole.

It was the chance Nume wanted. He leapt out of the cavern mouth, flipped over a blinded and dazed Maureen and ran up the rocky Kudite-stone path to Kudik Pass.

…

Hours later, wrapped in several layers of Chocobo-down clothing, Nume made his way through a brutal snowstorm in the Kudik Peaks. Grey-white snow assailed him from every angle, and the wind slapped his flushed face as it whipped through the valley. The tracks made by his adamantoise-leather boots were covered with a fresh layer of snow almost as soon as they were made. All in all, Nume felt, it was as close to Hell as could be found in Ivalice.

He looked to the sky through blurred eyes, but it was black with storm clouds, as was the path in front of him.

He sighed, letting the heat of his body flow out and be frozen in crystal shards in front of his face.

It was then that he saw it, reflected in the crystallized remainder of his breath; a flicker, like that of a torch, far away in the distance. He blinked twice and looked again to make sure it wasn't a snow mirage. It was real, and it was getting closer with every step.

In the—probably vain—hope that it was an inn or tavern, or something of the like, he quickened his pace against the bitter wind.

As he got closer, the shadows behind the torch began to take shape, and Nume suddenly had the inexplicable urge to run away and hide. When he finally saw it, he understood why.

It was a wall of stone, black as night, covered with ice and snow from the storm. A formidable looking gate was situated in the middle of the path, blocking access from this side of the wall.

There was no one on the wall—not even a mental Bangaa would stand guard in a snowstorm like this one. Yet the two braziers on either side of withstood the wind and burned brightly. Nume remembered the last time he had encountered such flames; he reasoned a magic user was holed up inside the checkpoint, and had enchanted the torches.

But there was another problem—how to get in! Nume's eyes searched the wall for some sort of crack or indent that would signify a door, but he found none.

Suddenly, as he turned to his left, two powerful hands grabbed him from behind, and the last thing Nume's eyes saw before he slipped into black was a door, open but hidden in the cliff face beside him.

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COMING SOON! Chapter 2: Old Friends, Violent Escapes


	2. Old Friends, Violent Escapes

Hello again! Once again (as I shouldn't have to remind anyone) I don't own anything except my character's dialogue and personalities. Their names are even taken from the game. I'm serious; look for them next time. Anyway, on with the story! And please, read and review! I need more reviews!

Chapter Two: Old Friends, Violent Escapes

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The first thing Nume felt was a biting, bitter cold. The air around him was so cold; it felt as though his very bones were frozen. "Mateus! I must have passed out in the snowstorm. I'm buried in the snow!"

Expecting to see nothing but white, he cautiously opened one eye. Shockingly, he saw black…

Suddenly, it all came back to him; he had been grabbed from behind and dragged through the hidden door in the cliff.

Groaning, he sat up. He quickly rubbed his bare arms to warm them, in the process realizing why he was so cold: he was only wearing his cotton tunic and breeches. His coats and ninja garb were missing. And of course, his katana had been taken. No sense in arming a prisoner, after all.

Shivering, he surveyed the room around him, looking for a way to escape. The dark stone that the wall was made out of also made up the walls of his cell. A flickering torch reflected off the black rock like glass. No good; there were no imperfections to work with. He looked to the door. It was made of a dark wood, which Nume judged to be Danbunkwood, with a barred hole cut in the top for a window. The door was not encouraging. Danbunkwood was almost rock hard, which made it impossible to cut, and inflammable, so the torch was useless. His eyes went to the floor next. It was simply the hard, frozen earth and rock of the Kudik Peaks. Some Ulei river grass was scattered around, and a large pile of it was underneath him, apparently functioning as a bed.

"All the comforts of home," he whispered wryly to himself. Suddenly, he thought of the book and groped around for it in his breast pocket—but it wasn't there! Nume sighed, but resigned himself to looking for it later. At the moment, he really needed a way to escape.

He got up slowly, wincing as blood returned to his lower extremities with the force of a thousand stinging needles. Then he hobbled, teeth chattering, over to the door. There had to be a way to get out.

Having been a thief before he joined the ranks of the ninja, he knew what to look for. He ran his slender fingers down the length of the door. No imperfections or seams—it was a solid block of Danbunkwood. Cursing good craftsmanship in prisons—something he had never seen before in his life—he tried the window. The three bars, he noticed, were of Kudite stone, and would not break easily. His eyes peered over the edge, and saw a solid bar of Kudite stone barring the door, in case the prisoner got the notion to attempt to break it down.

Already shivering with the cold and now from despair, his eyes inadvertently went to the floor. His head cocked to one side and his eyes sparkled again. Of course! The floor was simply frozen earth! He could try and dig his way out!

But he sighed and gave up the idea as he thought about the effort it would take in the cold. It would be nearly impossible, he decided. The only possible way it could be done was with magic, and he only had his limited Ninjutsu spells. Still…it was worth a try, and he had a torch…

Standing in the center of his cell, torch in hand, Nume's jittery fingers attempted to make the signs. Twice his fingers slipped in the process, and he had to abandon the spell. Finally he collapsed, shivering convulsively, his mind slipping in and out of consciousness. He crumpled to the ground and closed his eyes.

Muffled footsteps from the hallway awoke him some time later. He thought about moving himself to his original position, but decided against it. Instead, he curled into a ball—more to keep warm than for any other reason—and kept one open eye trained on the door.

Darkness fell over the window and a tall, pointy shadow reached into the room, as if to search for signs of life. The brazier in the corner of Nume's cell, which had been burning dimly, suddenly flared brilliantly to life. Then, with the shriek of stone against wood and the ghastly groan of un-oiled hinges, the door swung open. Nume's eyes flew open and he sat up in astonishment.

Standing in the doorway was a tall man whose face was shadowed by the wide brim of his crooked straw hat and the high collar of his deep blue Mage's robes. He also held a staff of deep black, with a great red crystal attached to the top by the wings of an unseen dragon. But what caused Nume to sit up in shock was the signet ring on the Mage's right hand—a golden sun with an "R" in the center, the symbol of Nume's clan, Clan Ragnarok.

"Sharu?" Nume's voice was harsh, weakened by the cold. "Is that you?"

The Mage walked into the room and knelt beside Nume's prone figure. "Yes, dear friend. It's me."

"B-but, how did you—"

"Ssssh. You look horrible. Lie back down and rest."

Nume didn't want to go back to sleep now that Sharu was with him, but as the Mage started chanting in a language unfamiliar to Nume, he fell into a deep and enchanted sleep.

…

Sometime later, Nume awoke. This time, however, he was not cold, and he was not alone. In fact, as he sat up and warmed his hands over the small fire beside him, he felt positively refreshed.

"Awake yet, sleepy thief?" Sharu was grinning slyly, though you could never discern it through the shadows over his face. Nume had long ago learned that the Mage's emotions were still well conveyed by his voice. Nume considered it the most emotive in all Ivalice.

Nume nodded, and the Mage sat down by the fire, too. Though it provided warmth, like all fires, it did not smoke. Such was the miracle of magical fire and Ulei grasses.

Turning to Sharu, he asked, "How did you find me here?"

Sharu shrugged. "I didn't find you, you found me. After we came through here and you still hadn't returned, Marche sent me back to look for you. But when I got back to the pass, this great wall blocked my path."

"You mean, it wasn't here when you came through?" Nume's eyes were wide with incredulity. "But you went through the pass just two days ahead of me! It's impossible to build a wall like this in two days!"

Sharu nodded. "I know. And that isn't the only strange thing about this place. When I got here, the flag of the Gaja Band was flying on the parapet."

"Gaja!" Nume stiffened. "But I thought their territory only went as far east as Baguba!"

"As did I." Sharu stood and leaned against the wall. "Naturally, I wanted to do some more investigating." His eyes, the only visible part of his face, sparkled with orneriness. "So I joined them." Seeing his friends eyes narrow, he added quickly, "Only for a while, though. I'm their new recruit, Istavan."

Nume laughed bitterly. "Istavan…what a horrendous name!"

"I thought so, too. At any rate, I've learned a little bit about what Gaja is doing in Kudik. I think they are trying to—"

Nume threw a hand over the Mage's mouth to silence him. Then, needlessly motioning for silence, he stole over to the door and peered through the window. At the far end of the hall, a shadow loomed large as its owner neared the corner. Nume rushed back to Sharu and hissed, "Quick! Put out the fire and hide the ashes!"

'There's no time for that," the Mage whispered forcefully. "That Bangaa is coming to execute you and throw you out into the snow."

"What!"

"I'm sorry. I tried to tell you earlier, but you collapsed…" Sharu shrugged, reached into his robes, and withdrew two knives. He handed them to the shocked thief. "It's the best I could do. The leader had your katana, and I didn't have a chance to steal it."

Nume would have thanked him, but the footfalls in the hall were growing louder and nearer. Instead, he motioned wordlessly for Sharu to stand in the corner, away from the door, and he took up his post behind the doorframe, just as it began to creak open.

The shadow blocked out all light for a moment, and then a stout Templar walked into the room. His Lonhegrin flickered menacingly in the torchlight, as if it was itself on fire. He surveyed the room with wide lizard eyes. "What'sss going on here!"

His answer came in the form of a barrage of lightning bolts, streaking from the fingertips of the hidden Sharu. They blasted into the Templar's chest, knocking him backward. Nume took the opportunity to jump from his position and sliced at the Bangaa's back, tracing an arc of red on the Templar's robes.

The Bangaa yelped and swung its sword wildly. Nume ducked under the swing as it clanged loudly off the stone wall, showering sparks on his black hair. Then rolled aside, slicing at the Bangaa's knees as he did so. The Templar hissed in anger and fell to his knees, just as Sharu let loose another sizzling bolt. It struck the Templar square in the chest, streaked up his breastplate and into his helm, and came to rest in the Bangaa's brain. The lizard-man keeled over in a pool of red, dead as the stone walls of the cell.

Nume looked wide-eyed at Sharu. "What?" Sharu shrugged, dug into the folds of his robes, and tossed a pile of violet garmets to Nume. "Lightning is the easiest magic to control."

Nume quickly donned his ninja attire and, holding his twin knives, ducked out of the open doorway. He was certain someone would have heard the Bangaa's screams, and didn't want to be around when the lizard's friends discovered the body.

Accompanied by Sharu, whose staff was burning like a torch—he had stored a Firaga spell in the crystal—Nume made his way down the length of the wall, stopping at every open doorway to listen for sounds. "Which door is it, Sharu?"

"Just follow the hallway. It'll take you to the door."

They continued cautiously down the hallway. As they neared the corner, Sharu whispered, "You know, I haven't seen any more of Gaja goons around."

Nume was about to nod as he turned the corner, but instead stopped abruptly and gasped. Sharu ran into him, glanced forward, and said, "I think I know why."

Three figures stood between them and their freedom. One, a short moogle with a scarf tied around his neck and a gun in hand, was sneering at them menacingly (or, as menacingly as any moogle could). To his left was another Bangaa, dressed in the minimal armor of a Gladiator and bearing a wicked-looking sword that was black as night. Behind them stood a proud, scantily clad Viera in a tight-fitting purple tunic, grinning maniacally.

"Whoa," Nume said, eyes goggling.

"Sharp," said Sharu, eyes on the very long, pointy rapier she held in her hand.

She smirked seductively, cocking her head so that her long silver hair fell in front of her shining eyes. "Istavan? What are you doing with our prisoner?"

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Beatriz," Sharu quipped casually, "but I'm afraid that Istavan isn't my real name."

She brushed her hair aside, her bunny ears bouncing. "I should hope so. Such an ugly name is most unbecoming for you." Smiling coyly, she snapped her fingers. "Cox, Mack. Kill them."

Nume whirled around and shoved Sharu to the ground just as three bullets ricocheted off the stone wall behind them. The Gunner grinned as the barrel of his gun smoke lazily. Then he reloaded.

Meanwhile, Nume had regained his balance and was engaged in a knife fight with a blade-wielding gladiator—in Nume's humble opinion, it wasn't very good odds. The thief dodged a high swipe from the Gladiator and sliced low, cutting a red line on the Bangaa's belly. This only served to infuriate Mack, and with a terrible cry he charged Nume and Sharu.

Nume didn't wait for the Bangaa to sword-tackle him. Instead, he rolled to the side as Mack's sword came crashing to the floor. Then he rebounded off the floor and came flying at the Gladiator in a knife-first tackle. Just as Mack tried to raise his sword and counter, the air crackled and sizzled violently, and Sharu cast another Thundara spell. The blast of lightning tore at his chest, burning him and sending him sprawling.

Two more bullets blasted holes in Sharu's cape as he whirled around the corner, furtively whispering more words of magic under his breath. As he did so, he pointed frantically for Nume to get down. The thief did so without hesitation. Just as the Gunner was aiming his gun to fire a devastating Stopshot attack, Sharu pointed his staff at the moogle and said, "Firaga!" The crystal on the top of the staff suddenly exploded in fire, and the air around it coalesced into a giant fireball, which went flying at the terrified Moogle like a beserked chocobo.

"Yipes, kupo!" The rolling fireball exploded upon the diving Moogle as it engulfed the short ball of fur. When the smoke finally cleared, the Gunner's charred corpse lay in a sad heap on the cold earthen floor.

"I'll kill you for that!" Nume was startled to hear the Bangaa's raspy voice as Mack rose up shakily, blood staining his charred leather breastplate and running in thin streams down his sooty legs. Suddenly, Mack's blade came slicing through the air toward Nume's head.

He barely had enough time to block. As it was, the force of Mack's swordstroke sent Nume sprawling and knocked his knives out of his hands, sending them clattering into the wall. Now vulnerable and without a weapon, he crawled backward on all fours while keeping himself facing the increasingly angry Bangaa. His hands searched frantically behind him for his knives. Suddenly his finger felt the soft touch of a leather hilt, and Nume's hand closed upon it just as Mack began to take another swing. He rolled away and ran along the wall past the Gladiator, slicing at Mack's chest as he went. For on the ground he had seen the foundation for a new plan of attack: water. More specifically, the condensation on the floor in the aftermath of Sharu's Firaga spell. Landing gently, he ran to the sooty, wet scar on the ground and ran his hand over it. His hand was drenched with the ground's sweat. He smiled devilishly.

Mack was disoriented, bleeding, and tired, and was having trouble standing. Nevertheless, he was struck with a discordant note of confusion as he turned and saw the Ninja standing, robes ragged, sooty and torn, smiling as if he had just done something supremely clever. Of course, Mack's brain was severely inebriated by the pain, so the sudden movement of the Ninja's hands made him dizzy. Only the Ninja's voice resounded over the pain in his head: "Sharu! Thundaga, now!"

Sharu shouted the words of magic, and five brilliant bolts of lightning seared their way toward Mack. At the same time, Nume unleashed his own ninjutsu spell, Water Veil, sending a wave of water racing toward the Gladiator.

Both magics met at the same time, crashing simultaneously into Mack's body. The lightning blasted into his back, but the water rushed around him and allowed the electricity to course through it, strengthening in the current. And suddenly, as he died, Mack was caught in a maelstrom of water and lightning, and electric water.

Then, it stopped, and the Gladiator's body fell, soaked and torn, to the ground. Nume was sweating profusely in the suddenly humid air. But when he felt the cold touch of steel to the nape of his neck, he knew he had forgotten one, very sexy, thing: the Fencer.

Sharu stepped out from the corner to congratulate Nume, only to find the Fencer standing over him with her sword to his neck, eyes gleaming wickedly in triumph. "Don't cast another spell, Mage, or your thief friend dies.

Sharu swallowed and laid his staff down on the cold ground.

"You think me a fool, Mage!" she snapped. "Until I can silence you, I am vulnerable to your spells, whether you have your staff or not! Now, hold still while I use my Manastrike!" Slowly, her eyes on Nume, she raised her sword and focused on Sharu.

Nume didn't wait any longed. Swinging his leg around his body, he tripped the Fencer and dove behind Sharu. "Now, Sharu! Cast something!"

Suddenly three missile of glowing purple fire, looking strangely like hunting hawks, came slicing through the air at Sharu. Nume pulled him down by his coattails just in time, but the powerful blast still tore through his hat.

Sharu's hands were burning with a fiery Firaga spell, and he unleashed it with a motion of his hand. The fireball rushed toward the Fencer, who leaped and flipped over it with ease, shooting three more purple hawks at them and then running them down with a fierce cry.

Nume grabbed his two knives and flipped forward to meet the Fencer's arcing sword. Just as he was about to block the strike, her sword dipped out of the way and stabbed at Nume's leg. The sharp cold of penetrating steel and the warmth of blood was an unnerving combination, and not one that Nume found pleasant. Ignoring the pain, he twisted around and stabbed wildly at the Fencer's shoulder, slicing deftly at her sword-arm. She faltered for a moment, and Nume went for a strike.

Too late, he realized she was feinting. Her crooked smile hit him full-force just as she side-stepped and lunged. Her sword tore into his shoulder, but her fell toward her anyway, swinging his knives ferociously. She effortlessly blocked these strokes, and sliced at his other shoulder too.

Just as she was about to strike again, Sharu whirled around the corner, pointed his staff, and cried out a word of magic. Lightning bolts crackled and sizzled as they arced toward the Fencer from the crystal staff, which was blazing brilliantly, brighter than the torchlight.

The bolts struck her full force, slamming her into the wall violently and singeing her silvery hair black. Nume's fingers suddenly flipped and twisted around each other, and just as the Viera's body touched the ground, a great hand of earth reached up and clasped her lithe body in its palm. The thief smiled. His Earth Veil had worked.

The Fencer's aqua-blue eyes were smoldering with rage, and though she was in pain from the Thundaga spell, she still attempted to escape by hacking at the hand with her rapier. Nume dealt with this quickly, and swatted her rapier away with a vindictive flourish. Then he took his knife to her cheek and made a small cut. She screamed and clawed at him with her long nails. "How does it feel, rabbit girl," he quipped grimly.

Her cheeks flushed, and she glared menacingly at the bloody Ninja. "If you kill me now, you'll never get the book!"

Nume shook his head. "Sorry. Getting of out here with my life is more important to me than any old book, and you stand in the way of getting out alive." His fingers moved quickly again, and the hand squeezed a little tighter.

Sharu now joined Nume at his side, leaning on his staff for support after casting so much strength-sapping magic. He spoke slowly, but nonetheless deliberately: "Why does he want the book?"

Now the pretty Viera glared at the Mage. "Because without it, your leader will never know—"

"What?" Sharu leaned over, closer to her face. "What will he never know?"

She spit at his shrouded face and turned away. "I have said too much already."

Sharu sighed and, whispering again in the language of magic, touched the earthen hand with his staff. A sudden light blinded Nume, and the air around them seemed to swirl violently. When he opened his eyes again, the Fencer and the hand were frozen in shock. Nume's eyes widened. "What the…!"

Sharu rose and shrugged. "Time Magic." He looked expectantly at Nume, who returned his stare blankly. Then, laughing, he said, "Well? You're the thief among the two of us, aren't you? Then what are you doing, just standing there? For Mateus's sake, thieve already! We don't have much time before my spells wear off."

Nume nodded and started searching. Before long, he found a small, brown leather pouch. "Is this what you wanted me to find?"

Sharu, who had vanished into another room, yelled back, "Look for yourself!"

Nume sighed and reached into the bag. After rummaging through it for a few seconds, he pulled out a small, leather-bound book with gold stitching and strange symbols on it. "My book!" Hearing the flutter of the Mage's robes, he looked up and asked, "How did you know it was in there?"

Sharu shrugged, and put something he had been holding in his hands into a pocket of his robes. "Just a hunch. Come on, let's get out of this hellhole."

Nume agreed, put the book in his breast pocket and followed Sharu out into the cold.

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Coming soon (or as soon as I can type it)--Chapter 3: Memories and Glass 


	3. A Vision Through Glass

Hello, readers! I know, this chapter has been long in coming, but it is finally here. I figured you wouldn't mind, since there are only four (!) reviewers that would care enough to read this. Anyway, this may seem like a "filler" chapter, but I promise it isn't. This chapter lays the foundation for some important events. Like, say, next chapter! Or the one after that, as the next chapter is a lot like this one, but with a shocking, cliffhanger ending.

In any case, after that long winded author's note, please remember that I do not own the world of FFTA, nor the characters. My interpretations, though, I do own.

Chapter Three: A Vision Through Glass

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Sharu and Nume, cold and tired, crept through the cobblestone streets of Muscadet in the dead of night. Streetlamps bleakly lit their way as they searched for the Inn of the Gypsy Veil, where the gatekeeper had told them Clan Ragnarok was staying. Even though their clan was currently controlling the Viera home city, its position—on the border with Clan Dip territory—meant that the streets were dangerous for members of both clans. And not just because of possible skirmishes, Nume found out. Also because of the Exodus Tree roots that tended to pop up through the ground and trip up unsuspecting ninjas.

After the third such occasion, Nume groaned and rolled over on the ground, his eyes wandering over the waxing moon, the stars—and the shadowed face of a friendly Mage. "Sharu…help me up."

The Mage laughed dryly and pulled the bloodied and battered Ninja upright. Brushing off the dust from his tattered Ninja garb, he sighed, and they continued their nighttime journey.

They turned several corners, which disoriented the already woozy Nume, and started running through the Musca Street Market. During the daytime, the street would be packed with merchants selling expensive and exotic wares, and willing buyers scouring the trash for a possible treasure. Now, illuminated by the light of the moon, the street was utterly deserted.

They continued on this way for several hours, and Nume could have sworn he passed that storefront three times in a row. Or was it four? His mind was reeling from the blood loss, even though the wounds had long since been staunched by Sharu.

In any case, they soon found themselves standing before the Inn of the Gypsy Veil. Or, so they assumed. A tall, giant willow tree stood guard over the building on the dark side street, completely obscuring the Inn's sign from view. Sharu assumed—probably rightly—that the "Gypsy Veil" of the inn's name referred to the willow's long, slender, cascading branches, which diffused the warm light that was pouring out of the inn's large windows. Boisterous laughter and singing could be heard dimly.

"Well. Sounds like Bjorn has had his share of ale tonight, hmm?" Sharu smiled at Nume, who was swaying unconsciously in place as he stared ahead. "Well, come along now. Marche will be anxious to hear about our…travels." He took the Ninja by the arm and walked him toward the door.

In the midst of his incoherent mumblings, Sharu thought he picked up the phrase, "I could use one of those ales myself." Grinning in spite of himself, Sharu shook his head and rapped loudly on the inn's door.

The noise inside died down, and loud footsteps echoed their way up to the door. The peephole opened, and a bright blue eye peered out at the bloodied Ninja and cloaked Mage. "What's the password?"

"Ex…extra! Extra! Extra! Read all about—"

Sharu clasped a hand over Nume's blabbering mouth. "The password is Excellion, Marche."

The door creaked open, and a young blonde haired, blue eyed man wearing Paladin's robes ushered them inside, closing the door quickly. "Matilda! Come quick, Nume's injured."

A Viera wrapped in White Mage's robes got up from her table, staff in hand, and rushed to Nume's aid. Sitting down beside the delirious Ninja, she whispered a healing prayer in the language of magic, cupping pure white light in her palm. Then she pressed her hand to Nume's chest. White sparks rushed across his body and into his wounds, which closed and scarred over smoothly. Soon, his breathing was normal, and his eyes closed sleepily. Matilda smiled. "He will be fine. If we set him on a chair, he will wake eventually."

Marche called two of the clan's Bangaa members, Ivan and Brish, who carried the sleeping Ninja to his chair at the clan's Council Table.

In order to keep his clan from fracturing during the clan wars, Marche had thought up his Council Table. A representative of each race sat at the table. In general, they were the founding members of Clan Ragnarok. However, since Johannes—a Bangaa Defender and a close friend of Marche—had died in a horrible battle in Jagd Dorsa, several new members had stepped up and joined the Council, lending some new insight to their positions.

Still, Marche's faithful friend Montblanc sat at the table, in the choice seat across from Marche. To his left was Lidenbok, a powerful Bangaa Dragoon. To his right sat Tosca, a lovely—and somewhat vain—Viera Sniper. To her right, and on Marche's left, sat David, the clan's head magic user, a NuMou Sage. Sharu took the seat opposite of David, next to Nume, who had awoken groggily. The barmaid brought him some tea, and then some ale, and soon all was well.

After a lull in the conversation, Marche spoke. "Well, we have much to discuss. We must hear Nume's tale—which promises to be quite interesting, I suspect—and then his meeting with Sharu. Nume?" He gestured to the thief, who cleared his throat and took a tattered book bound in gold-edged leather out of his pocket and set it on the table. Everyone leaned in closer to get a look at it as the Ninja began to talk.

"Well, I guess I should start from the beginning." He took a sip of ale, then continued. "As you know, the book dealer that David works with, Gaara, asked me to…erm…_acquire_ a book for him while we were in Salikatown. Supposedly, there was traveling merchant there, who had just come from the far northern lands, or somesuch. In any case, I just remembered what I had to do as we were leaving in a rush after our little brush with the Forest Fairies. You guys wanted to go ahead anyway, as there was going to be a snowstorm in the Kudik Peaks in three days."

"Yeah, that's right," Tosca said smoothly as she raised her mug of ale. "But you were supposed to get the book, wait for the storm to pass, and then take on the Pass with Sharu. Why did you try to go it alone," she said accusingly, "and in a snowstorm, no less!"

"Believe me," the Ninja said flatly, "I had no intention of doing otherwise. Unfortunately, the book dealer turned out to be working for Clan Dip, which complicated the, er, _transaction_, if you will. To make my story slightly shorter than it will inevitably be, I was chased out of town by several Clan Dip henchwomen. I ducked, dived, and dodged their arrows all the way to the edge of the Kudik Range, where I eluded them once and for all," he said, raising his voice heroically.

"Pleassse," Lidenbok laughed. "You exaggerate, Nume. The Archersss of Clan Dip have notoriousssly bad aim."

"Fine, I digress. But, to return to my story"—here he threw an accusing look at the Bangaa, who only laughed harder—"I ended up in Kudik Pass during the snowstorm. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, I discovered that my way was blocked by a gigantic wall made of black stone."

"Kupo? A wall," Montblanc asked quizzically. "There was no wall when we went through the pass!"

Nume turned to Marche, as if he didn't believe the Moogle. "What? You mean, the wall wasn't there?"

Marche shook his head. "No. Your story is the first time I have heard of such a thing."

"Nevertheless," Sharu interjected quietly, "it was there when he came to the pass, and it was there when I returned as well."

"That's ridiculous," Tosca yelled, slamming her mug on the table and spilling froth all over the table. "A wall cannot be built in two days. It simply isn't possible!"

"It seems entirely possible to destroy it within hours, though," David said softly, in the NuMou way. "Our spies indicated no strange wall when they went to look for Sharu and Nume, who they saw as they descended the trail."

"Wait one moment, friendsss," Lidenbok grumbled. "It occursss to me that thisss wall may have been a hallusssination of our friendsss, brainsss addled by the cold."

"I assure you, Lidenbok, that my brains were not addled," Sharu said coldly. "On the contrary, I was quite comfortable, thanks to my charmed robes. I was quite warm, and quite capable of thinking. And," he added quickly, noticing that Lidenbok was thinking of interrupting again, "in case you think that this wall was simply a mirage, I can assure you that it wasn't. I went inside it." Turning to Marche, he said gravely, "The flag of the Gaja Band was flying on the parapet."

"Kupo! The Gaja Band," Montblanc yelped. "But their territory is nowhere near here! It only stretches as far west as Baguba Port."

"That's why I wanted to investigate," Sharu answered. "I wanted to find out why—and how—Gaja Band came to acquire a mysterious wall on the border of our territory and Clan Dip's."

"And what did you find out," Marche inquired.

"Not much, I'm afraid. Their leader was a Fencer named Victoria. Apparently, she and her goons were there to recover a book, which had been stolen from them. Then, after a while, she gave her soldiers orders to look for a person, who she believed was holding the book. Of course, I wondered where all these orders were coming from, but I only ever heard them secondhand. One of her henchmen, however, told me that she disappeared into her chamber for an hour at a time, coming out with new instructions."

"Wait, wait, wait," Nume commanded. "I may be inebriated, but I thought I heard you say they were looking for a book, then a person that might have the book?"

"Yeah, I did. Why do you ask?"

"Don't you all see it? If they knew about the book, that means that they heard about it from Clan Dip."

"And if they're talking with Clan Dip," Marche finished, "they must be allies with them, as well."

This shocking revelation abruptly silenced the table. For a long time, the only noise was that of those seated downing another mug of ale. Finally, after staring at each other for what seemed like an eternity, Lidenbok spoke. Slowly, thinking about each word, he asked, "Sharu, sssomething about this doesssn't add up."

"Well, it makes perfect sense to me," Tosca said as she ran her slender fingers through her shimmering white hair. "We Viera take pride in our appearances. She was just taking time out for herself, and then, when she emerged, she had a new order she thought up while she was painting her nails."

"Beauty has no place on the battlefield, my dear," Lidenbok chided mischeviously, quoting an ancient Bangaa proverb.

"Beyond that," Marche said, pulling the conversation away from Tosca and Lidenbok, who were now playfully staring each other down at the other end of the table, "I agree with Lidenbok. Something about this Fencer's behavior is suspicious."

The assembled clan members contemplated this for a while. Sharu's hands searched his robe pockets, sheerly out of habit, until he pricked his finger on something sharp in one of his pockets. With yelp that caught everyone in the bar off guard, he withdrew the offending object from his pocket.

"I almost forgot," he said excitedly as he held up a piece of glass with jagged edges, in a diamond shape roughly the size of an eye. "I found this on the Fencer as we searched her for the book on our way out."

"May I?" David asked. He took the fragment from Sharu's hand and placed it in his palm. Then, with his free hand, he undid the lowest bangle from his left earlobe and placed it over his eye—an instant monocle.

Montblanc leaned over to Lidenbok and whispered, "NuMou are kupo creatures, don't you think?"

"Indeed," the Bangaa agreed.

David studied the piece of glass for quite some time, with the others sitting around him, watching fascinatedly as they sipped their ale. Then, he held it up to his eye and looked through it. Suddenly his eyes glazed over, their pupils straining to see something distant. Then, a second later, his eyes returned to normal, and his head jerked backward with a start. He clasped the monocle back onto his earring and set the shard in the center of the table. Then, silently, he sat back down and stared off into space.

"Well, kupo," Montblanc whispered anxiously. "What is it?"

David didn't answer for a moment, then spoke softly, slowly, "It's a piece of glass…and yet…so much more."

"What do you mean?" Marche asked.

David hesitated, then pushed the fragment toward Marche. "Hold it up to you eye and think of something. Anything, anyone, anywhere. Whatever comes to mind."

Cautiously, Marche held the fragment up to his eye. The first thing that came to his mind was an unbidden image of a gorgeous, rose-haired beauty with a blue Aisenflower in her hair, a glittering sword at her side, singing sweetly…

At once, the glass began to shimmer. The images around it and beyond it faded, until all was black in Marche's vision. Specks of light seemed to swirl around him like stars, even though he was sitting still. Then, abruptly, he felt a tug in his spine, and in an instant he was falling into black…

He was sitting around a campfire with three Viera and a red-haired girl. They were lying on their backs, gazing upward to the heavens, the stars displayed for their viewing like a grand tapestry.

_The Viera to the red-head's right had her hair cut short and uneven, unusual for their race. She seemed the closest to the girl, for they shared knowing looks every now and again._

_"What are you thinking about, Ritz?"_

_The girl sat up and looked at the short haired Viera intently. Her crimson hair waved brightly in the firelight and her blue eyes flashed. "I was…thinking of home."_

_The Viera rolled her eyes. "And your blonde haired friend as well, no doubt?"_

_Ritz gave her a playful shove. "Shara! Stop it!" The group burst into giggles, and their laughter was richer than the sweet smell of the nearby trees. After a while, there was an awkward silence. Ritz's eyes stared up into the sky for what seemed like an eternity. Suddenly, her eyes came back to earth, and to Marche's surprise, she was staring directly at him!_

_"What are you looking at?" Shara asked as she followed her friend's gaze._

_"It's nothing," she said softly. "I just…." Her eyes closed, her head bowed, and she sighed. "I just felt like he was here."_

Suddenly Marche was yanked backward again, and his vision went black. He felt the tug again, but this time, it wasn't behind his head—it was in his heart.

He opened his eyes again. Through the strange and unwanted tears, he saw that he was back in the Gypsy Veil. His clanmates stared back at him strangely. They had never seen their leader this vulnerable before.

"Marche…what happened?" Tosca had come to Marche's side and placed her thin hand on his shoulder without him noticing.

It took Marche a moment to regain his composure before he spoke. "You were right, David. This is…extraordinary."

"What is it, kupo?" Montblanc said as he picked up the glass shard from where it had fallen. His furry little hands picked it up and held it up to the light, allowing the little Moogle to survey it at every possible angle. Finally he gave up and set it back down on the table, arms crossed in front of his chest. "It doesn't do anything. I think it's broken, kupo."

David laughed. "No, my little friend, it isn't broken. However, I think it's most advisable to save the demonstration for another day."

"You didn't answer his question, David," Tosca said sweetly.

"Yeah!" Montblanc interjected. "Answer my question, kupo!" From his tone, it was apparent that he was still miffed about not being able to try it out.

"Alright," David conceded. "It allows you to see things, but how it does so, I have no idea." David held out his hand to Nume, who had been silent since the revelation of the glass shard. "May I have the book?"

Nume nodded and handed the book to David, who examined the cover eagerly. He then undid a bangle from his earring and unfolded it twice to reveal a perfect pair of glasses. He stared at the binding for some time, then looked at Sharu over the lenses. "I assume you felt it, too?"

"Yes. I thought it would be unwise to open it without someone else to possibly assist me, however."

"Yes, yes," the NuMou murmured. "Quite advisable."

The other council members looked at each other in utter confusion. "Would sssomeone pleassse explain thisss to me?" Lidenbok asked, exasperated.

David gave no indication of answering the question, so Sharu spoke. "Both of these items have a magical aura about them. To a magic user, the very presence of such an aura causes a feeling that is…hard to describe, at best."

"Ecstasy," David added absentmindedly, not even bothering to look up from the book.

"Erm, yes, I suppose 'ecstasy' could be an accurate adjective. Anyway, the auras of these two items are unreadable. Normally, you can tell by the aura whether an item is cursed or not. But these items are unreadable…like an invisibility spell for intentions and purposes."

"Kupopo!" Montblanc recoiled and jumped away from the table, staring fearfully at the shard. "Is that glass piece cursed?"

"No," David said. He folded his glasses back up and shut the book. "If they were cursed, especially the crystal, Marche and I would both be dead by now…or worse."

"So…what do we do now?" Nume asked.

"I'm not the expert on magical artifacts," Marche said with a shrug. "Sharu, David…any ideas?"

Sharu shrugged, but David said, "Well, I would really like to know what the book and the shard are, and if they have anything in common. But, since I can't make heads or tails of the book, I couldn't tell you. We need to find someone who can."

"I think we all know someone that fits that description," Sharu said with a smile.

Marche's face brightened. "Ezel! I haven't seen him in a while."

"Then it's settled, kupo!" Montblanc jumped up into the air, propelled by his tiny wings. "We leave for Cadoan tomorrow morning!"

As the members of the table took another round of ale and Nume began to recount his story in further detail, a lone thief slipped out the door of the inn and set out for Cadoan. He had to warn the Major—things were about to get interesting.


	4. From Past to Present

_Hello again! Yes, I know this update was long in coming, but it took me a while to decide if I should stop this story or continue it. I got concerned that I was a bit far-reaching with the plot, which is revealed at the end of the chapter (can you say cliffhanger?) But, in the end, I decided to press on. Good thing, too, because I've just finished writing (NOT editing and typing) the fifth chapter, and it rocks! This one may be a bit on the, er, dull side (sorry), but I promise I'll make it up to you next time. It had to be done. But the plot is in this chapter, so it had to be like this._

**Chapter Four: From Past to Present

* * *

**

Marche squinted at the horizon as the sun rose on Clan Ragnarok's campground. The dark veil of the stars had been lifted from the sky, leaving in its place a glowing tapestry of scarlet, orange, and lavender, which blazed over the small oasis where the clan had camped out after three long days of riding in the Giza Plains.

Marche took the breathtaking beauty in with one long breath. The Ivalice sky seemed so much more alive than the one in the "real world". It sometimes left him wondering which of his worlds was the real one.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something on the horizon. It was only a speck of shadow on the glorious horizon, but since it was that far away, Marche assumed it was something very large.

He was contemplating how something could still be shadowed in this sparkling morning when, all of a sudden, the shadowy speck exploded in a flash of brilliant light. It was as if a single, pure ray of sunlight had struck a mirror. Marche found himself shielding his face from the glare.

"That, my friend, is Cadoan." David's soft voice seemed like a yell in the morning silence, and it startled Marche completely. The NuMou sat down beside the temporarily blinded Marche. "Glorious, isn't it?"

Marche grunted. Something that blinded him didn't necessarily fit his definition of "glorious". "What makes it…glow like that?"

The NuMou laughed. "Travellers tell strange tales of our city." His huge brown eyes sparkled with amusement. "They say that the stones sing out praises of the sky and earth, and that the source of all light in the world is welled up beneath the city."

Marche looked expectantly at David. "Well? What is the city really like?"

The Sage smiled. "I could not say. The city speaks to everyone differently. I don't want to diminish that."

Marche was puzzled, but he shrugged it off and began to walk down the path back to camp.

"Wait." David's voice stopped him. Though it was soft, it was firm and commanding. Marche turned around to see the Sage sitting down and smoking a long, black pipe. Strange, azure mist poured from the open end. "What did you see?"

"What?"

David sighed and blew a giant smoke ring. He then proceeded to utter a few words, and pointed at a pile of sticks, which immediately burst into flames. Then he got up and took a tin rack and kettle from his bag. Then he picked some leaves from several plants and set them in the kettle that he had filled with water from the nearby stream and let them stew over the fire. "Come, sit."

Marche, strangely enthralled with the whole scene, sat down silently on a nearby rock. After an hour—or a minute? Marche couldn't be sure—he was handed a tin cup of steaming hot tea. He took a cautious sip and was immediately overwhelmed by the flavor. It tasted like the nectar of the Aisenflower; like the food of the gods, Ambrosia. He took another long sip of the heavenly concoction.

"Don't drink it too fast. It can cause delirium in large doses." David's voice shook March back into reality. The Sage himself had a full cup, but he was taking short, deliberate sips. Marche decided it was probably best to follow the NuMou's lead.

At length they finished their tea, and then sat in silence. For several moments, Marche and David stared into each other's eyes, as if searching for something buried in them. Finally, David asked Marche a question. It was the same one as before. "What did you see, Marche? In the glass shard, I mean."

Marche looked at David quizzically. "Why do you want to know?"

David sighed and picked up his pipe again. After taking a long drag, he said, "I have a theory I want to test."

"And your theory is?"

"I want to know, Marche!"

Exasperated, Marche sat in silence for a while, his head in his hands. Finally, he whispered, "I saw…Ritz."

"Your friend from the other world?" David inquired bemusedly. Though Montblanc had readily accepted Marche's ridiculous story about an alternate world called St. Ivalice, the rest of the clan talked about it in a strictly fantastical sense, and paid little attention to Marche's stories about it.

Marche nodded, oblivious to David's doubting tone. "Yeah. She was talking to some of her clan members." His eyes glazed over in remembrance. "It was night, like it was at the tavern. We were looking at the stars…"

"Do you remember any stars? Any specific constellations, perhaps?" David was taking notes in a small notebook, but Marche wasn't paying attention.

"You know…I think I saw a constellation—is it called Gwynedd? The archer, I mean. It was in the southern sky. Does that help?"

David was writing, but he wasn't listening. Things were falling into place now, but there were still too many missing pieces in the puzzle…

"David? You still here?"

The NuMou shook himself out of his trance-like state. "Yes, yes…I'm fine. You have given me some ideas. For now, it is imperative that we get to Cadoan. Now, more than ever, I wish to speak to Ezel."

Marche rose with a smile and handed David his empty teacup. "It will be good to see Ezel again, especially without him being on the run."

"Yes," David agreed, "it will."

The trip to the gleaming beacon on the horizon took far longer than Marche had anticipated. In fact, it was nearing sunset when the clan stood before the high walls and tall gates of Cadoan. But still, the sun setting on the city was quite a spectacle.

The walls that encircled the city were made of a dark stone, like onyx, that was tilted inward in such a way that anything that attempted to go up the wall would invariably slide back down. Dark green moss and multicolored ivy, however, climbed up the mortar lines, giving the sleek walls a feeling of aged beauty. But the most spectacular sight was above the walls. Tall spires and parapets of pure crystal glowed velvety orange, purple, and blue as the sun set in front of them.

Another curious contraption rested on the top of the wall. It looked like a dish, for it was concave in shape, but was made of an opaque, silvery screen. Light seemed to gather in it, and ebbed and flowed like an ocean tide. Marche marveled at this.

"It gathers light for the streetlamps," David said nonchalantly. "The Alchemist Guild developed it years ago."

An awestruck Marche stood in the road, gaping in wonder.

"Come on, Marche," David said with a smile. "You haven't seen anything yet."

Marche nodded blankly and followed David to the tall, onyx gates of the city. As David stood in front of the gates, Tosca and Montblanc were searching in vain with their eyes for a gatehouse.

"Kupopo! There's no one here!"

"Yeah," Tosca said, "how are we supposed to get in?"

"Easy," Azimov said. The Alchemist was another NuMou member of the clan, and he joined the two confused onlookers. "These gates open by magic. Only a NuMou can open it, and only when he learns the spell. It's the NuMou birthright."

With the whole clan looking on, David closed his eyes, raised his mace, and began chanting slowly. His words seemed to hang in the air, mesmerizing everyone who heard them. Then, as the last syllable was uttered, David struck the door with his mace.

A golden web of light suddenly blazed as it spidered out from the place where David had struck it, and with a great creak and growl, the doors opened. And as they did so, Marche and his assembled clan members—Tosca, Lidenbok, Azimov, David, Montblanc, Matilda, Sharu, Nume, and two human Fighters he had brought along for extra protection, the twins Henri and Diesel—let out a collective gasp.

A giant cobblestone street lay before them, shimmering with brilliant colors in the waning light. Every now and again, one of the giant crystal buildings that they had seen from the other side of the wall spiraled upward toward the sky, but most of the buildings were tents: bright, multicolored tents made of luxurious fabrics and decorated with strange bangles hanging over the door flap, on which was inscribed a peculiar and arcane design. All in all, Marche had never seen anything so amazingly different in his life.

"We live in the tents," Azimov was explaining to Tosca and Lidenbok, "because nothing is allowed to be as beautiful as the temples and universities, especially the Temple of Ultima. All of those buildings are consecrated by the Ultima Guild and created with magic."

"You mean," Lidenbok said in wonder, "that there are buildings in this city grander than these?"

Azimov flashed a coy smile. "Just wait. You'll see."

Led by David, the clan walked straight down the road, pausing every so often to gawk at the wares of various street merchants. Magical trinkets and jewelry were everywhere, just begging to be bought by the bewildered foreigners, but Azimov and David ushered them quickly onward. They continued down the street for some time, then abruptly stopped.

They had reached the center of the city. Fabulous buildings encircled the area, but the main attraction of the circle—namely, what everyone was gawking stupidly at—was in the middle of the circle.

A great, twisting spire rose from the cobblestones like a vine of pure glass that had grown from the enchanted earth. Clan Ragnarok watched in awe as the colors of the sunset undulated through the tower, as if it was absorbing them from the sky.

David smiled. "I give you…the Temple of Ultima!"

The clan marveled at this, the most glorious temple in all of Cadoan, for quite some time, until the tapestry of the sunset melted into the cool night-blue of twilight.

Finally, Marche's eyes were released from the tower's spell, and he led his clan inside the temple.

It didn't take long to find Ezel's office. The renowned magician—his official title being Hermetic—had set up shop in an opulent room on the third level of the Temple. In fact, the contraption that Azimov called an "elevator" had taken them to the third floor of the temple, which had been labeled in the lobby, "Antilaw Lab".

Marche was expecting something grand again, but he was sorely disappointed. Ezel's laboratory was paneled in dark wood and lined with bookshelves filled to their maximum with books of every shape and size. Green and violet rugs emblazoned with strange runes and patterns led to a magnificent but dusty desk, at which sat Ezel Berbier.

The NuMou Hermetic, though his fur was graying with age, was still lively. He wore festive purple robes that sparkled as he walked, the pattern of falling stars cascading down to the floor. Various silver baubles hung from his neck and his pierced ears. But his green eyes sparkled most brilliantly as he gave Marche a gigantic hug.

"Marche, my old friend! How are you doing?" Without waiting for an answer, he held the Paladin an arms length away and surveyed him. "Look at you. My, you have grown since we last met each other. Which reminds me to thank you, because the last time you helped me out, and I'm pretty sure I left before I could thank you."

"You don't look as though you need my help any more," Marche said with a smile.

Ezel laughed heartily. "Oh, no. The Clan Wars have made me plenty of gil. Everyone wants the edge up on the competition, so naturally they by my Antilaw cards."

"Naturally," Sharu agreed. He was glancing at Ezel's book collection. "I've never seen some of these tomes before. Where do you get all of them?"

"Oh, I've acquired them from…various sources. Actually, some of them were here when I bought the office off an old friend of mine who retired from the Guild. Of course, the Council of Elders tried to stop me from buying it, but hey," he added with a sly grin, "who can argue with gil?"

"Apparently not you," Nume muttered under his breath. Just seeing all of these highly stealable items made his mouth water.

"Well, since you're here," Ezel was saying as he again sat behind his desk, "what may I help you with?"

David spoke. "It is a matter of some concern, Master Berbier. Privacy and secrecy would be well advised."

Ezel was silent for a moment, then said, "Of course, Master Sage. Privacy is what you wish, so privacy I shall give you." He unclasped a section of his necklace and strode over to the door. Then he placed the bauble in the center of the door. Bright light flared from the doorway, and a network of light spidered its way over all the walls, ceilings, and floors. He reclasped his necklace together and stood on the other side of a circular rug that was embroidered with arcane symbols. He spoke some words of magic—words that elicited gasps from Clan Ragnarok's magic users—and, in a blaze of turquoise light, a table of obsidian stone appeared, as well as a matching chair for Ezel.

"So," he began calmly, as if the events of the last few moments were completely normal, "what is so special that such privacy is necessary?"

"An object of some value, I think," David said forebodingly, and placed the book on the table. It immediately vanished and reappeared in front of Ezel, who took a monocle from its place (dangling from his ear) and put it over his eye.

At first, he was silent as he examined the cover from every possible angle. Only when he opened the book did he speak. "I assume you recognized the book's magical properties?"

"Of course, Master Berbier," Sharu said as he emerged from one of Ezel books, which he had taken to reading. "I recognized the feeling as soon as I saw it."

"But," David interjected, "I think it has more power than its aura belies. I couldn't even begin to decipher the text of the book. You don't see something this unusual in your everyday artifact hunting."

"No," Ezel murmured, "you most certaintly don't." Absentmindedly, he touched the table, and a lit candelabra, some parchment, and an inkwell with a black chocobo-feather quill pen materialized. He began furiously scrawling, not bothering to look at what he wrote. Once or twice, as if in disbelief, he looked from the book to the page several times, but eventually shrugged and continued writing. The clan members watched in silence, unwilling to do so much as cough and interrupt him.

At length, he closed the book, gathered his notes, and stared unblinkingly at Marche. "May I ask _where_ you came across this book?" He glanced accusingly at Nume the thief, who was obliviously admiring an expensive vase on one of Ezel's bookshelves. "Do I _want_ to know?"

Marche shrugged. "Suffice it to say, we…erm, _acquired_ it from a Clan Dip artifacts dealer in Cyril."

"I see…" Ezel reclasped his monocle to his ear and leaned over the table imposingly. "Do you have any idea of what you have in your possession? Even the slightest?"

Marche shook his head. "Like David told you, none of us could read the book."

Ezel shook his head profusely. "Not that, you dolt! I mean the glass shard, the one your Sage is fingering in his robe pocket!" At this, David's snapped to attention. "Yes, I can feel the shard! Especially now that I have read about its power! Bring it here!"

Obediently, David set the small piece of crystal on the table in front of Ezel, who immediately snatched it up and held it over his eye. Marche felt terrible realization crawl up his spine as he recognized the look in Ezel's eyes, the way the NuMou's irises lost their intensity, as if their focus was needed elsewhere…

And suddenly Ezel was back, his green eyes wet with unwarranted tears. No one spoke, as if listening to the powerful NuMou sobbing was the only thing in the world that was important. At length, he wiped his eyes clear, and gingerly placed the crystal on top of the book. "Your Sage is right, Marche. This book…the shard…they're more powerful than we…than anyone could ever imagine." His tone was dark, but his eyes had turned darker.

"Ezel…I don't understand. What does the book do? And, more importantly, what in Mateus' name is that shard?"

Ezel shook his head, as though even he didn't believe the words he was about to say. "The book…" he took a deep breath. "At first, this book describes the path one may take to find, defeat, and summon a sixth Totema from the Immortal Realm. The Totema's name is Omnira—the Master of All."

Marche's jaw dropped. "But I thought the book was just about the shard. A-a-another Totema? But Ezel, that would mean…" he swallowed, realizing that what he was about to say would shake the very foundations of his new world. "That would mean," he whispered quietly, "that this is…the last link that keeps Ivalice and St. Ivalice apart?"

To Marche's surprise, Ezel shook his head. "No. That cannot be the case because…" he bowed his head and sighed. "Marche, I don't know how to say this…it's even hard for me, a scholar of unpredictable magic, to believe…"

"Kupopo!" Montblanc piped up, shattering the tension that had been building all this time. "What? What is so hard to believe?"

Ezel spoke softly now. "The book proceeds to tell of how, after a great and terrible war, the leaders of the land of Ivalice destroyed their land, created artificial deities to watch over a new land, and left the world behind, disappearing into what the book calls 'the Analogue World'. Then, near the end, the story concerns a young man, the last 'Zodiac Brave', who was left behind by the rulers. In order to save himself, he destroyed the greatest and most powerful of the six Totema deities. By doing this, he gave himself immortality, so he could survive the world's destruction. In its final words, the book says that the newly immortal warrior was thrust forward in time to the new Ivalice, but will stop at nothing to return to his own time, to get revenge on the rulers who wronged him and left him to die." Ezel took a cautious breath. "The young man's name, the immortal warrior's name…was Llendar Twem."

"Correction," came a voice as cold as ice from behind them. "His name _is_ Llendar Twem."


	5. The Twin Fates Collide

Marche whirled around at the gravelly sound of Llendar's voice. "Llendar! Y-you-you're here?"

"But of course I am, dear friend." Llendar smiled fiendishly as he stepped out of the shadows of the doorway and into the bewitched light of Ezel's office. He was dressed in the outrageously luxurious uniform of a Bervenian Guard officer, and he was flanked by two guards, Bangaa Defenders, both wearing Captain's badges on their sashes. Behind them, Marche could vaguely make out the shadows of other soldiers.

"Biskmatar," Ezel said coolly, taking a bow. "You honor me with your presence." He casually repositioned himself in front of the table, blocking the book and the shard from view. "But I must say, this is rather unexpected. The palace assured me that my business would no longer be interfered with. I must say, I am rather disappointed by their lack of trust in me."

"They will yet trust you. Only if you betray that trust will they interfere." Llendar's grey eyes were as cold and expressionless as his stony face.

"Then there is nothing to worry about. I wouldn't dream of doing anything to jeopardize the palace's trust in Antilaws."

Llendar smiled and stepped forward. Marche and his clan promptly took a step backward. "I know that, Ezel. That's why I'm going to have to ask you to give me the book and the glass shard on the table behind you."

Ezel turned around, stepped back, and, with a smug smile on his face, said, "What table, Biskmatar?"

Llendar's face burned with anger as he saw that the table—along with the book and the crystal—had suddenly and completely disappeared, right under his nose. Only a circular rug remained in that spot.

Nonchalantly, Marche said, "Well, Ezel, I guess our business here is complete." He turned to Llendar with a mocking grin on his face. "Good day, Biskmatar."

He and his clan members began to walk to the door. Just as they were about to reach the door, Llendar snapped his fingers. Suddenly, human fighters and two more Bangaa Defenders leaped into the room and drew their weapons. Behind them, two NuMou Black Mages stood at attention.

Slowly, Marche, Montblanc, David, Azimov, Sharu, Nume, Tosca, Lidenbok, Matilda, Henri and Diesel backed away from the doorway. Marche turned around to find Ezel on his knees with Llendar standing over him, two glistening knightswords crossed at the Hermetic's throat. Ezel appeared quite calm, though through several years of friendship Marche could tell that his friend was extremely nervous.

"Marche," Ezel whispered through clenched teeth, "don't worry about me. Just find the other shards and bring them together. The book will tell—"

"Don't you dare, Hermetic!" Llendar pressed both blades to Ezel's neck, drawing blood. A thin river of crimson stained the silver swords and dripped lazily to the carpet. As he watched each droplet fall, Marche felt as though he was watching time slip away. And, though it pained him, he knew what he had to do.

He looked at his friend, his blue eyes—darkened with sadness—met the deep, deep green of Ezel's. "Don't worry, my friend," he whispered. "We'll be back for you."

The NuMou smiled solemnly. "I know you will." Then his eyes closed and he began to chant in the language of magic—knowing that he would never finish casting this final spell.

Marche turned away, but he still heard the sicking sound of flesh being cut, bone being broken, and the ring of steel against steel as the two swords collided in the middle. And it was in that single, unbelievable, horrible, sickening moment…that he struck.

Light blinded the two Captains just before Marche's twin Excaliburs sliced through their torsos. Before their bodies had even hit the ground, Marche was meeting swords with the two fighters. Spinning quickly, he dodged their wild swings and took them down with a brutal slash. Suddenly Marche was kneeling on the ground, his sword crossed in front of his face, his lips moving in prayer. But as two more Defenders and the two Black Mages entered the room, the Paladin's eyes open, blazing with righteous wrath. In an instant, a holy fireball coalesced around his body, engulfing him and his opponents in a blaze of purifying white fire. All that was left of that resistance was a cross-shaped scorch mark on the threshold and four singed and blackened corpses.

At some point during their leader's rampage, the rest of Marche's clan came to their senses, deadened after witnessing the horrific murder of an admired friend. Slowly, Tosca turned to face Llendar, steeling herself for a grisly sight.

But she didn't have to look at it. Llendar wasn't anywhere near the Ezel's body. Now he was circling the rug that lay where the table had once stood, muttering incantations. Suddenly realizing he was being watched, he turned to face the clan members.

"You…murdering, black-hearted, heathen son a Lamia!" Tosca's impressive curse momentarily stunned Llendar, at which point Tosca drew an arrow from her quiver, nocked it, aimed, and shot it at the Biskmatar in one fluid motion.

Unfortunately, the dark warrior was endowed with preternatural reflexes. With the ease of a gypsy juggling an apple, he flipped out of the way, landed on his feet, and raised a pale hand in Tosca's direction. "Alpha!"

"Astra!" Azimov shouted, raising his mace to counter the Biskmatar's spell. In an instant, Tosca was enveloped in a shimmering pyramid of protection. "Everyone," the Alchemist yelled, "scatter, now!"

No one needed to be told twice as black clouds of acid swirled at Tosca's shielded ankles, suddenly exploding and swirling around her like vicious whips of darkness. Diesel and Heri, trained to be tandem fighters from birth, leaped and dive-rolled in opposite directions, and slashed violently at the air as they landed. Twin blades of air screamed towards Llendar, hitting him in the shoulders. The Biskmatar groaned, but he still managed to hold on to his twin knightswords. Smiling fiendishly, Llendar whispered something under his breath and pointed a finger between Azimov, David, and Sharu, all of whom were deep in spell-casting trances. A circle of light suddenly erupted between the three magic users, and suddenly a cyclone of darkness swirled around them. Black tendrils crept out of the circle, deftly grabbing hold of their ankles and pulling them slowly toward the deadly hexagram, oblivious to the peril that closely awaited them.

Matilda, who had been praying fervently to Exodus in the corner, suddenly felt her Mother's strength course through her. Her lips moved swiftly on the wings of magic, and she cried "Shell!"

A giant protective aura promptly encased the three magic users. Shrill screams came from the hexagram, and the dark tendrils shrank back from the fierce light of the spell. As if in gratitude, the three magic users unleashed their spells in unison.

A furious barrage of lightning bolts shot toward the Biskmatar, smacking him square in the chest. A circle appeared beneath him, courtesy of the Alchemist, but Llendar leaped to avoid it. But as the air around him grew hotter, he knew he would be unable to avoid the Sage's Giga Flare spell. So he stood and let the heat engulf him, burning his eyes, scalded his skin, and singed his clothes. As the spell subsided, Llendar decided to take out the magic-users the old fashioned way. He twirled his swords and began to charge, but an arrow whizzed from out of nowhere and struck him in the shoulder. As he felt the blood well up in the wound and flow warmly down his arm, he cursed himself for his lack of presence. He shouldn't have let the sniper render herself invisible.

He narrowly dodged another arrow, and flipped out of the way of another blast of lightning, spinning as he landed to avoid two more Air Blade attacks. Suddenly, it dawned on him—this fight was futile. Nothing would be accomplished by killing Marche and his clan now—it would just mean that Llendar would have to search for the shards himself, and being a dark warrior had the unfortunate side-effect of having miserable luck. The only thing he could do, he decided, was retreat.

Lidenbok appeared from nowhere and thrust his lance at the distracted Biskmatar, but it was in vain. Llendar effortlessly blocked it, flipped onto a low bookshelf, and raised his hand outward, palm facing the clan. Marche rushed back to the rest of the clan and stood in front of them all, staring his rival down with blue eyes now as black as coals.

It was peculiar sight: two warriors, twin knightswords stained crimson at their sides, their robes splattered with now burgundy blood. Two warriors; light and dark; the twin fates personified in its immortal struggle.

"I am sorry about your friend, Marche," Llendar said. "But his death was just one of many necessary evils that will be committed for the greater good."

Marche's face contorted with rage. "To hell with the greater good!" He raised his bloody sword and pointed it at the Biskmatar. "By Mateus, if I have to die to do it, you will rot in the deepest pit of Hades, with my blade still stuck through your heart.

Llendar laughed bitterly, then sighed. "You know nothing of hell." An arcane design suddenly twisted its way across his brow, and a matching design appeared on his hand. Both started glow with black-violet light. "Goodbye, Marche. We shall meet again."

"Marche," David yelled, "he's escaping! Hurry!"

But for some reason, Marche could do nothing but stand transfixed as Llendar dematerialized in a blaze of dark light, leaving his cold, grey eyes in Marche's mind, never to be forgotten in this life, or the next.

Tosca appeared momentarily from her invisible state and laid a fragile hand on her friend's shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Marche. We tried to get him, but we…we…"

Marche remained still, silent, staring at the place where Llendar had stood only moments before.

Nume, meanwhile, crept quietly away from the others and returned to Ezel's body. Though he couldn't bear to look at the Hermetic's severed neck, nor the head that lay nearby, he went over to the body. He reached into Ezel's robes—now wet and black with blood—and rummaged through them. Something about the disappearance of the book and the shard had seemed familiar to him at the time, and he had a sneaking suspicion that he knew just where to find them.

As he felt his nimble finger prick on something sharp, then feel the soft touch of leather, he knew his hunch was correct. For a magic-user and businessman, Ezel Berbier was quite the clever thief.

He lay the two items in his palm and walked back over to Marche. "Here…I found them on Ezel. I thought…I think he would want you to have them."

Marche turned and looked as the thief opened his palm. The shard was tipped with blood, and there was a red smear on the binding of the book. Though he could see Nume's blood running down from his finger, he couldn't help but think it was Ezel's blood, spent so that he might continue the quest for the rest of the shards, and the truth. A lust for vengeance pounded powerfully through his veins as he thought about getting avenging Ezel's death by killing Llendar.

A brazen sound interrupted his thoughts, resounding from everywhere at once. David's eyes were suddenly alive with fear. "The alarms…the Guard has been alerted…Marche! We have to get out of here, now!"

The rest of the clan began to rush for the door, but they stopped when they noticed that Marche had walked the other direction, toward the window. As he looked down three floors, he saw a large contingent of guards clambering up the crystal steps that flickered along with the lit torches they held in their hands on that dark night. IN their other hands, Marche saw the glint of steel.

He swung his sword. The window shattered, raining glass down on the amazed guards below. He turned to his clan and said flatly, "There's a staircase hidden behind the second bookshelf. We should hurry. They'll only be distracted for so long."


	6. Hunted and Haunted

_Greetings, readers. Yes, I know, this chapter has been a long time in coming, but bear with me. My muse deserted me for a while, but recently came back to me with a bang. Hence, the new chapter. I know, aren't you excited? Probably not. Oh well..._

_Yeah, this chapter takes the story in an interesting direction, a new arc, if you will. I think you'll be satisfied by the way it turns out...but probably not with the way it will end. And yes, this arc will end in a couple of chapters, at most. _

_Oh, and I don't own FFTA, or the characters. I do own the new character in the story here, though, and her job, which I will detail in the author's note to the upcoming chapter._

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**Chapter Six: Pursued and Discovered**

"Which way, Marche?"

"Left," Marche panted. "Try left."

Marche and clan turned left, just as the thicket in front of them exploded in a flash of heat and light as a Firaga spell reduced it to ashes before their eyes.

Marche skidded to a halt, then turned and ran the other way, shouting, "Right! Go right!"

Soon Clan Ragnarok was hurtling through the forest in particular direction, ignoring the thorns that tore and their robes and skin. Behind them, a full regiment of the Cadoan Guard was engaged in a furious pursuit that had originated in the city, but had since followed them into Koringwood. Now, as they raced through the jungle like a herd of rabid chocobos, Marche felt as though the authorities were getting desperate. For at least a half hour, they had been shooting arrows and casting magic spells with no heed for themselves or their environment. Several times the sound of the enemy screaming had reached his keen ears, as though someone hadn't scored the type of hit they were hoping for.

But even though he could have taken the opportunity to slow down, he didn't. Though he and his comrades had been running for hours and hours on end, in the dark and the cold, no one felt like stopping. Though the pace their leader set was brutal and the path the tread uneven and unforgiving, no one ever asked to stop. Nor did they feel like stopping. Inside each and every one of them, the fire of anger and the rush of adrenaline were combusting in their hearts, giving them the energy to flee.

Bolts of lightning crackled over Marche's head; he ducked and cut around the corner. The rest of the clan followed, just as a volley of arrows thudded into the tree line behind them. Sharu's magical senses suddenly registered alarm in his brain. "Watch your footing," he yelled as the clan turned another corner. "Illusionists are following us."

Indeed, not a moment after Sharu finished saying those words, the ground buckled and cracked beneath their feet, and chunks of it flew into the air, proceeding to cascade down on them like a barrage of cannon fire from the heavens. Somehow, Clan Ragnarok appeared from the dust unscathed, continuing their breakneck pace.

Suddenly, the darkness in front of them disappeared in a blaze of sunlight. As the sun rose and the clan left the shadows of the forest, the icy rush that had filled Marche's veins melted, and he collapsed on the sandy ground.

The rest of the clan toppled over too, but did not pass out, being simply out of breath. Tosca crawled over to him and felt his forehead. She turned to David, her eyes full of worry. "He burns with a ghastly fever. Overexertion, probably."

"His emotional stress did him no good either," David agreed solemnly.

Nume looked around them. The sandy expanse of the land of Gotor reached to the brilliant horizon, and no sign of anything living could be found, save the forest behind them.

"This is no good," he said, looking to his friends for ideas. "There's no place to hide him, and no time to move him either…"

As if to emphasize this point, Matilda rushed over to a patch of low-lying shrubbery, motioning for everyone else to follow. "Quickly, bring him here! I thought I heard something!"

The rest of the clan, staying low to the ground, picked up their unconscious leader and hid him and themselves with Matilda in the shrubs. No sooner had they done so than two Blue Mages materialized from the forest—mere feet from where the clan lay in hiding—sounding quite out of breath.

"How far do you think they could have gone?"

"I doubt they're even here," said the other, surveying the bleak landscape before them. "No one would be so stupid to run towards a place with no cover." He pointed his over his shoulder from whence they had come. "My money says they're still back in that blasted forest, laughing at us as we run helter-skelter searching for them."

"But the footprints led us this way, remember?"

"Bah," the other scoffed. "That Soil Evidence spell back there ruined the trail. From there, they could have gone anywhere. Plus, the Blacks totally torched the place." He sighed and started back toward the forest. "Come on, there's nothing to see here."

The other, as if doubting his compatriot, took one last glance at the desolate desert, then turned on his heel and followed his friend into the shadowy wood.

Tosca slowly lifted her head out of the grasses, listening intently for footsteps. The only ones she heard were dim—those of the returning Blue Mages. She stood up, the all-clear sign.

Everyone stood up, feeling the need to shake off the sand. The sands of Gotor were notorious for mysteriously finding their way into every nook and cranny of one's robes. Superstitious folk said a curse had been laid upon the desert long ago, but most simply found it a minor annoyance.

Of course, all this shuffling of robes and shaking of armor proved quite noisy, but it couldn't be helped. Tosca—who had shaken off all the accursed sand in one fell, but extremely alluring, shake—kept listening intently for footsteps, but she eventually she decided there was no need to keep the surveillance up any longer. There was no one moving within her range of hearing.

Matilda took off her cloak, and made a sort of bed for Marche with it. She wet one of her handkerchiefs with water from her canteen and placed it on his forehead. The rest of the clan sat in a circle around her, silently, each praying in their own way, to their own god, for their leader's health. The silence, accompanied by the harsh screeching of the desert winds that blew across Gotor, was in its own way a comfort to Clan Ragnarok. The last time they had experienced peace this complete had been a full week ago, but now…now, that time was an eternity away.

"W-well," Montblanc squeaked, abruptly ending the silence, which he had not enjoyed in the least (a trait of most moogles), "what shall we do now? Marche is in kupo trouble, and we're on the edge of an empty desert!" He flopped onto his back and sighed. "Kupopo!"

"Though I hate to admit it," Lidenbok said contemptuously, "he's right. We have no plan."

"We need a plan," Matilda added softly.

"Sure we do," Tosca said in accord. "The only problem is: what would that plan possibly entail?"

"Exactly the problem," Sharu agreed. "We don't even have the maps to tell us where the nearest oasis is."

"Wandering around this god-forsaken desert is not in our best interests," David advised sagely. "The better plan is to look for a road. That way, when a merchant comes along, we can barter for transport. At worst, we'll have to follow the road on foot."

The clan groaned. Their feet were already aching from the intense escape that had ended not an hour earlier.

"Okay," David muttered darkly, "scratch that."

"Well, we have to have a plan, because, 'If you wander around—" Henri quoted.

"'—you'll never be found!" Diesel finished. It was an old rhyme the brothers had learned from their adventuresome mentor long ago. He had disappeared while combing the sands of Delia Dunes. It appeared that he didn't follow his own advice, which had been seen as rather ironic at the time.

Now the clan was arguing amongst themselves about what they should and shouldn't do, about what the best method of searching for a road was, and about a supposedly magical means for making a well appear out of thin air—a rumor copulated by Montblanc, but put to rest by the mockery of David and Sharu.

While all this was going on, a figure strolled up behind the clan, giggling softly as she listened to the friends bickering. Finally, she said, "Erm…excuse me?"

Their reaction startled the figure. Steel rang as weapons were drawn, and robes rustled as the clan turned to face this new foe.

Before them stood a Viera, her silver hair tied back and bound with a gold circlet, though it still fell past her slender shoulders. She was dressed in a tight tunic of sapphire, trimmed with rose—leaving little to the imagination—and draped with flowy, silky scaves of the same color. Her midriff was bare, her navel pierced and adorned with a glittering bauble, around which was tattooed an ethnic design from a tribe neither Tosca nor Matilda recognized.

The garment around her legs was an interesting contraption—it was made of the same fabric as her top, but it appeared as though she had a balloon wrapped around each of her legs. Either that, or she had very large calves.

Simply out confusion and admiration of this new beauty, Nume sheathed his knife and asked the question on everyone's lips. "Who the heck are you?" He gave her ensemble a second, appraising look. "You certaintly don't…look like a Cadoan soldier. You aren't, are you? It would be a shame to fight a beauty like—" he grunted as Sharu jabbed him in the ribs.

She giggled softly. "Oh, no. I'm not from Cadoan. My name's Sarai. I'm a gypsy." She stepped aside to reveal a parade of several carts, the middle on being rather gaudy in sapphire and rose—no one needed an explanation of whom it belonged to. "This is the merchant caravan that I travel with. Well, actually, they travel with me, but that's beside the point. We're going to Sprohm by way of the Ulei River Valley. We have friends at the ferry station there that are going to take us down the river." She looked from clan member to clan member, as if expecting an answer.

Tosca didn't have an answer, but she did have some questions, so she attempted to crane her neck around the buxom gypsy to try and discern if it was a trap. In innocent defiance of Tosca's intent, Sarai followed Tosca's gaze with her head, unintentionally making sure that Tosca could see nothing at all.

Ignoring the two Viera and the game they appeared to be playing, Sharu stepped forward and asked, "Umm…if you don't mind me asking…could we travel with you to Sprohm? You see, our leader—"

"Of course you can travel with us," Sarai said brightly, apparently oblivious to the fact that Sharu had been attempting to explain the situation. "Why else would I have come up here to talk to you?"

"I can think of a few reasons," Tosca whispered smugly, "like, say, to capt—" She yelped as David smacked her with his staff.

"What she means to say," the Sage said apologetically, "is that we would be delighted to take you up on your offer."

"Really?" Sarai questioned. "Because it sure sounded to me like—"

"Well, it wasn't," Tosca said, feigning cheeriness.

Sarai grinned. "Well then…that's settled! You'll be most welcome." She turned to the caravan and waved. Suddenly, six Moogle jugglers hopped out of the sapphire cart, rushing forward with a stretcher between them.

"Please, make your way to the last cart. My friends will carry your leader to mine, so that I can care for him." She turned and started to walk away, but Lidenbok and Tosca protested.

"Wait a minute! How did you know he wasss our leader?"

"Yeah, and how come he has to stay in your tent? We have our own healer, you know!"

Sarai turned, but her smile was no longer present. "In answer to your questions, I knew he was your leader because of the way you gathered around him. Secondly," she whispered, watching as her companions lifted Marche's unconscious body onto the stretcher, hefted the device onto their shoulders, and began to march down the hill, "…it seemed to me that your healer did all she knew to do for him. Plus, she only has three pouches on her belt, which means that she is a lower-level White Mage." She looked apologetically at Matilda. "No offense, I hope?"

Matilda shook her head. "None taken, Madam Sarai. You are correct in your assumptions."

Sarai nodded, and without saying another word, walked down the hill to the caravan.

At first, the members of Clan Ragnarok were hesitant to follow this woman, who was—at least, in their current opinion—either supremely clever or exceedingly peculiar. However, they soon realized that it was in their best interests to follow her, not only because she was very likely their only way out of the forsaken desert, but also because she did, after all, have Marche, and they at least needed to be with their leader. With much reluctance, the hurried down the hill and boarded the last cart of the caravan just as it began to head towards the Ulei River.

* * *

At first, there was only darkness. A cold, seeping, ruthless, heavy darkness that weighed everything down; his head, his eyelids, his arms, his legs. The darkness immobilized him, but for some reason, it felt good to finally relax…

He let himself go, and he didn't bother to try to get back. After all, why should he? All he wanted to do was rest…

Maybe here, as he slept, he could escape the clutches of the darkness. Maybe he could avoid the rising tide of nightmarish water that lapped up against his legs, but ate at his heart like acid. Then again, maybe all that pain was just a bad dream itself. And yet…

…Those eyes. They seemed so real. Like their malevolent gaze could set his body ablaze and incinerate it to embers. Always watching. They were always watching him. Awake, asleep, wherever he went, wherever he turned, there they were. They never closed. They never blinked. Always and forever, they just stared at him. And as they did so, Marche had never felt so naked in his life. It was like the eyes were staring at his very soul, condemning him…

Llendar's eyes.

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_oOo...spooky...better stay tuned, especially if you like Sarai. She gets even more...erm, involved...in the upcoming chapters. If you read this, you must review it. That is my new requirement. Give me some criticism, please._


	7. In Dreams and Portents

**A/N: **_I apologize for the delay between the last chapter and this one. For one thing, I started two other stories. And, I was—and still sort of am, as it were—caught up in the rush to complete all my work before the end of the semester.  It really sucks. But, in any case, here is the latest chapter. One of my reviewers (phoenixfire11389? I think I got the numbers right…) mentioned the dream sequence at the end. Thanks for noticing the creepiness, because, in this chapter, I hit you over the head with it. No, it isn't to insult your intelligence. It's just a mood I'm in. And, due to this same mood, I'll smack you upside the head (through my computer) if you think that I own FFTA. Doing so would make me weep uncontrollably because I do not, in fact, own it. (Now would be a good time to commence your own joyous clapping.)_

Chapter Seven: In Dreams and Portents 

For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Marche felt warmth. Not over his whole body, but somewhere, he felt it…he felt a heartbeat. Softly, slowly, calmly, it pulsed at the fringe of his consciousness.

He opened one eye, then swiftly closed it again with a gasp of pain. The light…it was too strong for his eyes.

He felt a cool touch on his forehead, fingers running through his damp hair.

"Are you awake?"

The voice was bubbly, as sweet as honey and as gentle as a summer breeze. He wanted to see who the source of this warm voice was. Though he was sure he had never heard it before, it was nevertheless familiar.

He tried again to open his eyes, then grunted and closed them again. They stung, as though someone had poked a thousand needles in them.

"Oh, I see now. The light hurts your eyes. I'm sorry, I should have thought of that. Just a moment," she said, her voice emphatic and caring. As he heard her move with a rustle of cloth, the air swirled and brought the scent of intoxicating perfume to his nose. As he breathed in, he sensed the world around grow suddenly darker.

He opened his eyes, this time keeping them open, and tasted the night air. It was thick with the smell of trees and swamp water, but he could also smell the acrid tang of a burnt wick. The light had been coming from a candle, which she had recently blown out.

And oh, was she beautiful! As she turned to face him as he lay down in his sickbed, the light of the moon found its way through the gauzy curtains and struck her silvery hair, illuminating it as if she herself was a fallen star.

He lithe body knelt beside him now, her hands washing his forehead with a cool, wet cloth. "It's okay," she murmured soothingly. "You're awake now, and that's good. Stay awake, stay with me…"

He smiled and looked into her eyes. Clear, misty, silver eyes…

Suddenly, he saw them in a different way. Now they morphed into the eyes that haunted him in his dreams.

Llednar's eyes.

He scrambled backward, his sweaty hands struggling to push away from her. The eyes…she was one of them.

"It's okay," she whispered, trying to figure out what was wrong. Only moments ago, he had been calm and quiet. Now he was frantic and raving like a lunatic. "What's wrong, Marche? What is it?"

"G-g-g-get away from me!" he yelled hoarsely.

"Sssh, sssh," she whispered gently. I'm not here to hurt you—"

"The eyes," he whispered, his own blue eyes full of fear. "Your eyes…his eyes…no!"

Sarai was about to ask him what he meant when Tosca and David burst through the curtains.

"Marche!" Tosca rushed over to his bed and hugged him, pulling him down onto the mattress. "Marche? What's wrong, what's going on?"

"What happened?" David inquired of Sarai.

She was obviously shaken, and she was looking fearfully at Marche. "I…I don't know what happened. He just…he just looked at me, and…and…he went wild."

"Eyes," Marche murmured. "His eyes…"

"Whose eyes?" Tosca asked him. "Whose eyes?"

But he never answered. His eyes closed again, and he fell back into a deep and troubled sleep.

Tosca sighed and laid her leader's head back on the pillow. She looked up at Sarai and David. "At least his fever's gone."

Sarai nodded. "When he next wakes, he should be fine. All of this is likely just a delirium left over from the fever."

David murmured in skeptical agreement. The gypsy's assumption made sense, and yet…Marche and been completely and awfully frightened of something. He looked at Sarai again. He had mentioned something about "eyes"…

The Sage's eyes met hers. They were a smoky gray color, shining silver in the glorious starlight. They were nothing special; many people in Ivalice had silver or gray eyes, especially Viera. Yet Marche had seen something in them, something that made him cry out in alarm…

Tosca put a thin hand on David's shoulder. "Come on…everything will be okay in the morning." She left the cart, the curtains swirling behind her as she departed.

With one last look at his sleeping commander, David left the gypsy's cart, leaving Marche in her care.

…

Several days later, Sarai awakened to the sound of someone stirring in her quarters. Cautiously and slowly, she rolled over, the words to a spell-song on her lips to immobilize any intruders.

Instead of intruders, however, she saw Marche sit up in bed, yawning and stretching in the bright morning sunlight.

She stood up gracefully and walked over to him. "Hello, Marche. Are you awake?"

Marche turned his head and looked at her quizzically. "Who are you?"

She smiled. "My name is Sarai. I'm a gypsy. I found you and your clan on the edge of the desert. They decided to travel with my caravan to Sprohm, and we've been on the road now for two weeks."

Marche nodded as if he understood, though in truth his mind was thick and groggy from his extended sleep. "Oh…" he murmured. He looked around and didn't necessarily recognize anything, but that made sense, after all. She seemed familiar, though. Even though he was sure that their paths had never crossed once before in their lives, he felt as though he knew her. He told her as much as she put a tin pot of water and tea leaves over a lamp-stove.

She laughed warmly. "I've been taking care of you ever since you collapsed."

"I collapsed?"

"Yes," Sarai related, letting Marche take a sip from a steaming mug of her tea concoction. "I think you overexerted yourself, and you fell into a feverish coma. About a week ago, you seemed to wake up, but I guess it was just a reaction to the relief of the fever, because you went right back to sleep afterwards. You've been asleep ever since…until just a few minutes ago, that is."

"A week!" Much to Sarai's shock, he hopped out of bed, and rushed over to where his robes lay in a corner, neatly folded. He hurriedly donned them after realizing that he was relatively naked otherwise.

Sarai giggled, blushing slightly. "Someone's in a hurry, hmm?"

Marche nodded as he put the finishing touches on his turban, affixing a gold emblem to the front. Sarai noticed it was in the shape of a sword stabbing the rising sun.

"What is the emblem you wear?"

"Oh, you mean the one on my turban, don't you? It's the symbol of our clan, Clan Ragnarok. …It's a rather long story, and I really should meet with the rest of my friends…" He was just about to rush through the curtains when, abruptly, he turned around and asked, "Where did you say we are, again?"

"We're floating down the Ulei River on a barge," she said casually. "Watch your step as you go out, though. If you aren't careful, you might fall off the barge."

"I'll try not to…Sarai." He smiled and stepped through the silky drapery, letting in a burst of thick, muggy swamp air.

Sarai stood still and listened for a splash, but didn't hear one. Satisfied that the groggy Marche had not fallen into the river, she made his bed and walked back over to her dresser.

With a compulsory glance to make sure no one was behind her, she opened the middle drawer and pressed her slender finger on a knothole of the Danbunkwood dresser. In the open drawer, the bottom snapped upward without a sound, revealing a hidden compartment beneath it. She reached into the hidden drawer and carefully extracted a strange device.

It was wrought of silver and was shaped like the emblem of her ethnic Viera tribe, with a verse in her mother tongue engraved into the center of the piece.

She clasped it in her hand, closed the false bottom of the drawer, and slid the drawer back into place. Then she withdrew from the dresser, walking to the other side of the room, stopping and kneeling before a small chest.

The chest itself was not unusual. It, like the dresser and the rest of the carriage's furniture, was made of Danbunkwood, inlaid with a vein of obsidian Kudite stone, and bound at the edges with silver. The only thing special about it was that, instead of having a keyhole, it was clasped with a rosy pink crystal, around which was circumscribed a verse in the mother tongue, the companion to the one on the emblem Sarai held in her hand.

She held the silver device in her hand and pressed it onto the crystal, which emitted a faint glow before splitting into two pieces as the lid of the chest lifted up.

Placing the key on the bed beside her, she reached into the chest and withdrew several objects, setting them on a nearby table. The first was a tablecloth of black velvet, shimmering silver in the sunlight that flitted through the gauzy curtains. She then set a silver stand on the velvet cloth. It too was designed to evoke the ethnic symbol of her Viera tribe. Then, she gingerly placed a crystal globe on the stand. It, like the crystal affixed on the chest, was rosy pink in color. When she touched it, however, it suddenly exploded in white light.

Hastily, she grabbed another velvet shroud from the chest and threw it over the crystal globe, dousing the brilliant light. Hurrying over to the outside curtains and drawing the heavy, black velvet ones, she cursed herself for lack of preparation. It was still hard to remember that the globe reacted that way to her touch. After all, it had only started a week ago, after she had been bathing near Cyril…

She glided back to the table again and sat down on the chair beside it. Throwing the veil off the crystal globe, she allowed herself to bask in the dancing light. She watched, transfixed, as the colorful stars swirled through the glass, over the walls, in her eyes, and all around her, ebbing and flowing like a cosmic ocean.

She touched the globe in a semi-entranced state, and the colors reacted to her touch, flaring up in a burst of blinding white light. Despite the burning of tears in her eyes, she could not bear to look away. Slowly, the light dimmed, and Sarai knew it was time.

"I am the seer of Clan Hakkai," she intoned, "the heir of the tribe of Vierasha. I am the owner and wielder of this art and this seeing stone. Obey my command!"

As if in reply, the globe became blue, then went opaque.

Sarai began humming, then whispered softly, "Marche Radiuju, the blue-eyed servant of Mateus. Show me the path he treads. Show me…show me…Let me see his future!"

For a moment, nothing happened. Then slowly, the opaque mists swirled away. Sarai's eyes widened as she fell into the dreaming seeing-state.

_A shadow stood behind the blond leader, following his every move, a specter immovable. It's face, though, was obscured by the mists of time…_

_A mirror stood before him, rising to sky, yet revealing nothing. It was odd…but then she saw the truth. The mirror was broken. She couldn't see the pieces, so she inferred that they had been scattered. But by who, and to what end…that information was not discernable…_

_Suddenly, Marche stepped forward, his shadow directly behind him, and stood inches away from the mirror, as though he was not aware of it's existence. He reached out a hand…touched a wall he couldn't see. Suddenly, a piece of the mirror materialized in front of his hand. He drew away, looked into the piece of the mirror…_

_The eyes. He saw the shadow's eyes. Gray eyes. _

_Suddenly, Marche and his shadow began wrestling with each other, trading blow after blow. As they continued to fight, the broken mirror began to reveal and repair itself. The missing fragments flew in from all directions, sometimes cutting Marche and his shadow as they appeared._

_Soon the mirror was all but complete, with only one part in the center remaining. _

_Marche and his shadowy assailant suddenly stopped fighting. The shadow reached out a hand. A shard of the mirror flew from it, placing itself in the empty hole. There was only one missing piece left._

_Marche and his shadow turned around._

_Gray eyes. Blue eyes. Staring at her._

_The eyes. _

She screamed. The light inside of the crystal faded into black, and suddenly it shattered into a million, tiny pieces—like the pieces of the mirror. Sarai collapsed on the floor in tears, the eyes etched onto her psyche forever.

In that instant, she understood what Marche had meant on that strange night one week ago. His shadow's eyes…they were stone cold gray. Like hers.

Bile churned in her stomach and burned her throat. A deep, dark sense of foreboding clawed at her heart. She couldn't escape a new feeling of dread…a feeling that those gray eyes were watching her every move…and that they were coming closer.


	8. A Heart Yet Unbroken

1**A/N: **Hello again, readers! Yes, I know, this chapter has been a while in coming, especially with a cliffhanger ending. But guess what...at the end of this chapter, you're going to find another cliffhanger–and quite likely another long wait to go with it! Yes, unfortunately a new semester has started up at school, and the workload has rendered my typing time short. Plus, my creativity is being consistently dampened by linear thinking in math class. Ugh. As a result, the unfinished tenth chapter is uninspired and in a complete state of disarray. Really, it is quite depressing. Oh well. In any case, enjoy the chapter–and please review it. If you've waited this long to read it, you might as well review it!

**(DIVIDER!)**

**Chapter Eight: A Heart Yet Unbroken**

In counsel with the rest of his fellow leaders, Marche heard Sarai's ear-piercing, earth-shattering scream. He snapped to attention and ran from the room, knocking over chairs and tables, not bothering to push the curtains out of his way as he departed.

He turned and ran, jumping over the space between the barges, hurrying to her quarters. Whatever had happened, he only hoped she was still alright. After unwittingly bringing her into this mess, he was not willing to let her pay the price for doing so. She had protected him; now it was his responsibility to protect her as well.

He reached the threshold and, taking a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever lay on the other side, he threw back the curtains.

It looked like a Bomb had decided to use Self-Destruct in the center of the room. The once stately and elegant furniture that had decorated the cart was now splintered, broken, and mangled. Some of it, around the middle, were streaked with soot. Even the curtains that he held in his hands were tattered and charred.

The table in the center of the room was by far the worst off. What looked like molten silver was pooled in the center of its fractured, pockmarked surface. There were broken pieces of glass embedded in the table, spraying outward as though the explosion had begun there.

But what concerned Marche most was Sarai. After failing to locate her in his original sweep of the room, he took another step in and found her huddled in the corner of the cart, bleeding from plentiful cuts and slashes everywhere on her body. Her eyes, usually sharp and silvery, like pure starlight, were now bleak and gray, staring ahead blankly, ignoring the waterfalls of tears that poured from her eyes and cascaded down her face. She said not a word.

Marche hurried over and knelt beside her. "Sarai...are you okay? What happened? You look terrible..."

She didn't answer, nor did she so much as acknowledge his presence. Instead, she murmured something that sounded like a conversation between two drunken chocobos.

Marche smiled piteously, then reprimanded himself for doing so. Sarai was strong, not to be pitied. She would get through this...they would get through this.

"It's okay," he whispered. "I'm here. You're not alone. It's okay..."

No sound came from her trembling figure.

Marche took her cold, clammy hand and kissed her forehead. "Wake up, Sarai. Wake up...Please...Wake up! Please!"

Footsteps suddenly resounded from behind him. Marche turned slowly and saw the rest of the clan, weapons drawn, uncertain of what they would find when they chased their leader, horrified looks on their faces as they stared at the destroyed interior of the cart.

David motioned to the rest of the clan, and they sheathed their weapons as silently as they could. Then he and Matilda stepped into the room. "I'm sorry, Marche. I didn't know what to think when you left...If I...if we could have done anything–"

He didn't have time to finish his sentence before Matilda slapped him. "Do not speak of the living as though they are dead!" She glared at him and rushed over to Sarai's side.

Looking her patient up and down, she breathed, "Exodus almighty..."

David walked over to Marche and knelt beside him, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder. "What...what happened in here? What happened to her?"

Marche shook his head and gave a pathetic shrug of his shoulders, but said nothing. Words could not express the conflicting emotions at the moment.

"She is alive...but she has withdrawn from her psyche." Matilda whispered.

Startled by her voice, Marche turned to face the White Mage.

"I can heal her wounds, I think...but I don't know when she'll come back."

He nodded, and she closed her eyes and spoke a strong healing spell in the language of magic. The whole clan watched as the gypsy's wounds closed over and the trickling rivers of blood fled from her dark skin. Her breathing, which had been coming in short, ragged gasps, returned to normal, and her bloodshot eyes finally closed.

Matilda sighed and stood up. "She is sleeping now. She should rest, at least until we reach Sprohm."

"There isn't time for that," David protested gravely.

Marche whirled around in shock. "What do you mean by that?"

"The remains of an extremely old and very potent magic spell still haunt this room. Whatever magic she was working in here...whatever spell she used...the result was obviously tragic. I need to know–"

"Why?" Marche stepped in front of the Sage, defiant and distraught. "Why do you need to know?"

"Marche..."

"Answer me! Why do you need to know? Can't you just leave her in peace!"

"Marche!" David shouted threateningly. "Listen to me! The magic...the spell that she used...the aura in here...it is much like that of the crystal shard that we possess. And, now that I know and recognize it, it also has an aura similar to Llednar's." He took a deep breath, then continued in a lighter tone, "She may have another piece of the crystal. We need to ask her where it is."

"Piece..."

Marche spun around at the sound of Sarai's voice, however weak it was.

"Piece...I have a piece...of the...mirror..."

"The mirror," Marche whispered. "Does she mean the crystal?"

"We could ask–"

"No," Matilda hissed. "She's unconscious, not responding to either of you. This is...this is part of a dream."

"Or a nightmare," Marche whispered, remembering vividly his own nightmares of the past week.

"He's...coming...for it. His eyes...like mine...they're coming closer..."

"Eyes?" Marche breathed.

"Coming closer..." David murmured. Something was on the edge of his mind, something important, something imperative...but, it was as though a piece was missing.

Suddenly, David recalled the scene from just a week ago, in the Temple of Ultima, and everything clicked. Sarai's eyes were silver, much like Llednar's. But now that the images were in his mind...there was one other similarity. A faint glimmer...a sparkle. He had first registered it as malice in Llednar's gaze, and happiness in Sarai's, but now...if what he realized was true, and 'he' was coming closer...coming for 'it'...

"Ultima's name," he cursed.

Marche was about to ask him what he was cursing for, but a ruckus behind him drew his attention instead.

Tosca suddenly emerged from the crowded doorway, dragging a protesting Moogle–dressed like the rest of Sarai's entourage–behind her by the collar.

"Ow! Kupo! Let go of me!"

Marche and David looked quizzically at Tosca and the Moogle, but she simply shrugged and said, "I'm very sorry for the interruption, but this one has an urgent message for you, Commander."

"Do not!" the Moogle piped up. "The message is for Mistress Sarai's ears only! Kupopo!" he crossed his arms defiantly.

Marche stepped aside reluctantly and let him see Sarai's sleeping body. "Your mistress is currently sleeping, and–"

"KUPO!" the Moogle screamed and started running toward her. "What did you and your friends do to her? I told her not to pick up violent desert riffraff like you, but she didn't listen, and now look what happened to her, and–hey, put me down!"

Marche had grabbed the little runt by the collar and was now holding him up at eye level, six feet above the ground, and staring him down with smoldering blue eyes. "Listen here, pipsqueak! We may be violent riffraff, but your leader...Sarai is in danger, and we may be the best protection you have, so give me the damned message!"

"O-k-kay," the Moogle stammered. "Our scouts have spotted...a d-d-dam in the river ahead."

"A dam?" David asked skeptically. "I haven't ever heard of a dam on the Ulei..."

"Excuse me!" Nume yelled as he pushed through the crowd, emerging in front of the doorway. "Excuse me, but...is this dam made of black stone, perchance?"

"Yes," said the messenger, rather surprised that the thief could have guessed it. "It is made of black stone, and it flies the flag of the Sprohmknights."

Nume looked gravely at his commander. "It's just like the wall in Kudik, Marche."

As if to confirm this new fear, the Moogle added, "And, among the soldiers stationed atop the parapets, there appears to be one dressed in the colors of the Imperial Army."

"Mateus," Marche cursed, his eyes widening as he suddenly saw the eyes of his foe glaring at him from the beyond. "It's him...It's Llednar." He looked at David, then turned to Sarai. He fell to his knees beside her, letting the Moogle go free, and ran his fingers through her damp hair. "And he's coming for her."

For a moment, the whole room lay in stunned silence. There was nothing to say, no emotions that could be expressed. Somehow, impossibly, inexplicably, their worst enemy had found them again. Despair hung heavy in the air like the smoke of an airship oil fire on the Baguba docks.

Finally, David cleared his throat and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Marche...We have to fight this time. There's no escape."

"I know, David. I know." He stood up and faced his clan.

"We have faced this foe before, friends. He ran the last time, but do not count on cowardice this day. He will be ruthless. He will not hesitate to kill anyone that stands in his path. He will come after Sarai and I with a vengeance. You have no reason to spare him or any of those that he allies himself with. Our only objective is to survive to live another day...to foil his plans another time." His eyes had cooled now, and because of the tears welling up in them, it seemed as though they were melting. "I only ask that you all survive. Even if I fail...Clan Ragnarok must carry on. I cannot bear to lose any more friends..."

"O-of course, Marche." Tosca whispered. "We'll get the demon! We'll survive." She smiled. "We have to be there to celebrate when you take him down."

Marche cracked a faint smile, but it disappeared immediately amidst a deluge of tears. "Thank you..." he sobbed. "Thank you all..."

David patted his weeping friend on the back one last time, then ushered the rest of the clan out of the cart, quietly giving them marching orders. The Moogle messenger left with them, giving David the service of himself and his companions.

Marche abruptly found himself alone, weeping, over Sarai's weeping form. Looking through watery eyes, he gazed at Sarai's peaceful face. He touched her chin.

A single, sparkling tear fell from her eyes, splashed onto his hand, and was immediately absorbed.

He kissed her forehead again. "Why...why did you get yourself involved in this? Another innocent person...destroyed by a quest I'm not even sure I believe in." He sobbed again. "If another life is lost...I don't know if I'll be able to go on..."

As he bowed his head, repeating this silent vow, Sarai's eyes quivered, then opened slowly. "M...Marche..."

He looked up, and their eyes met. "Sarai, I–"

Suddenly, her eyes went wild with fear, and she started scrambling backward against the wall, her long nails scraping the floorboards and making chilling screeches.

"Sarai, what's wrong? What's going–"

But before he could finish his sentence, before she could even begin to stammer a reply, Marche felt the cold touch of steel to his neck, and a chill unlike any other shot down his spine as he heard the voice of the grave speak.

"_Hello again, my friend._"


	9. Shadows of the Same Man

1_A/N: Hello, readers! Yes, it has been a while since the last update like this. I deeply regret such a travesty, but...as you may have read elsewhere, my schedule is a little demanding at the moment. And I think what I'm writing right now sucks. But the stuff I did before is pretty sweet...like this chapter!_

_This chapter is a bit emotional/powerful, so grab the kleenexes! LOL I doubt youll need them, but I really do like this chapter a lot. It makes the future bits of the story far more interesting. At least, I think so..._

_Yeah, so, those of you who were liking Sarai...well, I'll leave that until the end. Enjoy this chapter!_

**Shards of the Past**

**Chapter 9: Shadows of the Same Man**

(DIVIDER!)

"_Hello again, my friend._"

Llednar's words chilled Marche to the core, even more so than the knowledge that the Biskmatar had a sword leveled at his head.

"Friend is hardly the word I would choose," Marche spat bitterly.

"Hmm...I do see your point," the Biskmatar replied calmly, "Though it is a far better choice than 'enemies'."

Llednar's words confused Marche, but he was determined not to show it. "Funny, enemies is exactly the word I would choose."

The Bismatar laughed. "You would choose that word, of course. No self-respecting, self-righteous hero like yourself would ever admit that their supposedly 'noble' goals are the same as those of the 'villain' you purport to be fighting in the name of 'justice'!"

He paused, as though he expected Marche to retort, but he was disappointed. The only sound, other than the rush of water outside, was Sarai's whimpering.

Suddenly Marche felt the sword withdraw from his neck, even as he was kicked violently to the ground. He felt the pain of a broken nose, felt the warm blood flow through his crushed nostrils and onto the floor, and yet...for some reason, he felt detached from it all.

"Look at me," Llednar commanded. The voice was like being stabbed with a thousand icicles, only cold, and spoke of various threats that would turn to realities if Marche did not comply.

Reluctantly, Marche sat up on his knees and turned around, tasting coppery blood as it flowed in thin, twisted rivers down his face.

His ice blue eyes met the stone cold eyes of his foe, and they locked upon each other. The Biskmatar wore a piteous smirk on his face as he stared at Marche, an expression which unnerved him all the more.

"We are not so different, you and I," Llednar said in a voice barely above a whisper. "Oh, sure, you would claim differently, but that is only because you have been blinded by appearances and false truths. If you would only look deeper–"

"I have looked deeper," Marche interrupted. "I have drowned in the vain attempt to understand you, who you are, and your intentions...but all that I can see are the stone walls of your eyes.

For a moment, Llednar appeared shocked by Marche's words. Then, slowly, the smirk disappeared from his face, replaced with a look of forlorn sadness. "My eyes..." Marche braced himself for another hit, but Llednar simply laughed bitterly.

"Surely," he continued, "you had a saying in your world–as there was in mine–'_the eyes are the windows to the soul_'? Whether its original meaning was true or not, it is nevertheless truthful and accurate."

Marche was silent, unsure of what to say. He felt as though he was standing on a cliff. Revelation took him back toward his foe, and everything else sent him into a free-fall of the cliff. In the end, he decided to play along.

"How so?" he asked.

"My eyes..." Llednar began slowly, "were once scarlet, the color of my blood, and of the jewel embedded in my forehead." A sniffle came from somewhere, but from whether it was from Sarai or Llednar Marche was no longer sure. "But now...now they are the color of pale stone. Do you know why?"

Marche thought for a moment, then replied, "Because you are not of the living, but neither are you dead."

Too late, he realized that this was not the answer the Biskmatar was looking for. In a blur of motion, Llednar brought the pommel of his sword down on Marche's skull, crumpling him to the ground with a cry of agony.

"Insolent fool!" he shouted. "After all you have heard and seen, you still believe the lies and rumours of the common people! Know this: these eyes of mine are silver because they have seen time. The eternal river of sand corrupts the eyes, paling them until no color is left but this stony gray. This is why the eyes of your beloved gypsy match mine. With the aid of a piece of the crystal, her ablility to see the future was profoundly strengthened, until it was beyond that of any mortal. Her soul has been corrupted, Marche."

And then, in one incomprehensible and terrifying instant, Llednar vanished from Marche's view. But it took only a muffled scream from behind him to make him realize exactly where the Biskmatar had gone.

He turned slowly, bracing himself for the terror he was certain to confront.

Thankfully, he was momentarily spared of his darkest nightmare. Nevertheless, the scene was not exactly heartening.

Sarai knelt, her hair tousled and wildly frizzy, her silvery eyes distant, wide and bland, devoid of their usual sparkle. Twin SaveTheQueens were crossed at her throat, their hilts were gripped in the strong, pale hands of the immortal Biskmatar. The familiarity of the scene struck Marche instantaneously. It seemed only days had passed since the death of Ezel Berbier, and that would was all too fresh.

"You, too, have been corrupted, Marche," Llednar said coldly. "In fact...we are like two shadows of the same man, one younger and more naive, fighting against powers far greater than he, with no chance of winning; the other, older, wiser, and more powerful." He paused. "When they left me for dead in the ashes of the old Ivalice...I hated them. I vowed revenge on them for what they did to me, because it was so cruel and despicable. But now...I thank them for doing it."

"Why? Why do I thank them for doing this to me, for making me into a monster?" Seeing Marche's expression, he added, "Oh yes, Marche, I do admit that I am a monster. But it is only because they made me a monster. And I thank them for it because, if unwittingly, they gave me all the power I would ever need to destroy them."

He looked pointedly at Marche, who had risen again to his knees. "I have said that we are similar, but I am afraid that our similarites must soon end. You see, you are far too much like I was once; strong, idealistic, driven, and compassionate. Therefore, I have no intention of leaving you in the ruin of this world."

Marche looked at Llednar strangely. It was as if the man was morphing in front of his eyes. The anger Marche had felt just moments earlier as he had kicked him to the ground had all but dissipated, leaving in its place an emotion something like pity. Did he really pity Llednar, the man who had already killed one of his friends, and now threatened to kill another? Was that even possible? Or was it just a part of the Biskmatar's twisted plan?

"What do you want with her?" Marche asked, his voice so controlled it surprised even him.

Llednar laughed. "You honestly haven't figured that out yet? Maybe I gave you too much credit in saying you were like me..."

_I know...what he seeks..._

The words struck Marche like lightning. The voice was Sarai's! He glanced at Llednar, but the Biskmatar didn't appear to have heard it. Then...she was speaking in his mind!

_Marche...do not despair for me. I will die...that is almost as certain as any future I could see. But Llednar will not gain what he desires by killing me._

Marche wanted to scream, but he found that he didn't have the voice for it. His inner emotions were in turmoil, and suddenly he lost the control he had found only moments before. A single tear slid down his cheek, mingling with the dried blood.

Llednar looked surprised. "You...loved her? That is...strange..."

The Biskmatar continued, but Sarai's voice controlled Marche's conciousness.

_I have given the power to you. At the first chance you have, you and your friends must run. There will be time to grieve for me later._

Before Marche had any time to react, Llednar's dark voice ensnared him. "...and grieve now, my friend, for you are one step closer to your doom!"

Marche tried to move, forcing every muscle to comply, and started to close his eyes, but he found that he could do neither. He watched, horribly enthralled, as the bright blue-steel swords sliced through the lovely gypsy's neck. Just as they were about to meet, Marcher heard Sarai's silent voice scream _"Now! RUN!"_

But he couldn't. As her lifeless body fell to the floor, Marche stood up and drew his twin Excaliburs.

Viewing the scene. Llednar laughed haughtily. "Well, isn't that sweet. We almost look like twins now!" He laughed again, but didn't budge. "I appreciate the sentiment, but I fear that you're outmatched."

Suddenly Llednar stuck the point of his swords in the pool of blood as his feet, then brought the bloodstained sword to his lips. "You see, with each shard of the lost Totema's power I gain, I grow more powerful." His eyes fell pitifully to Sarai's body. "I felt the power of time emanating from this girl, just as I feel it now emanating from her blood. As soon as it touches my tongue, that power will be mine!"

As the Biskmatar took his drink, something stirred in Marche's own blood. It felt like something had ignited in his heart, spreading the fire throughout his body, until it reached his head at the same time as his shocking conclusion:

This was the power of time.

His soul had already been corrupted; Llednar had said so himself. By traveling to Ivalice, he had been exposed to its flow.

He had been made into this. There was no question. There was no turning back. Sarai had given him the power that Llednar desired. He would use this power to avenge her.

As Llednar took in a raspy breath through bloodstained lips, Marche summoned the burning fire of time, channeling it in ways he could not explain, through his arms, out of his hands, and into his swords, until both Excaliburs burned.

"You're wrong, Llednar," Marche said coldly, his blue eyes now smoldering. "And you're about to pay the price."

The Biskmatar could only gape in shocked wonderment as a line of burning fire sliced across his chest.

This was no ordinary fire, he realized as he flew backward, hitting the wall of the barge.

This was the power of time. The power of a Biskmatar. His power.

And now it was Marche's, too.

He looked back and saw a great fireball welled up near the boy's chest, held in check by his crossed swords. Llednar beheld it grimly. If the boy wanted to fight this way...then it was a fight he would get.


	10. Battle on the River

1A/N: Hello again, readers. I know, it hasn't been as long as I professed since I published the last chapter, but I was a little down at that point, and wasn't sure what I was going to do. So I just started typing again, and what do you know...new chapters. Funny how that works...But after this, I have to write new chapters, as this is the last one I have written down so far, and my current focus is on another story...but, in a major first step for me, I planned out what would happen in the next chapter (SHOCK GASP!), so it's just a simple matter of writing it...until I decide to change it in the middle of the story. You know how those things happen.

Oh, and thanks for the fantastic reviews for the new chapter...all two of them! But it's okay. I realize a story with this many chapters takes a while to read. But normally it racks up lots of reviews in the long run. (Actually, I think the key is increased exposure, which means updates at least weekly...not something I'm able to (or keen to, for that matter) do. In any case, on with the story. This is a major action chapter, so forgive me for my crappy action writing. I am trying to work on it, hence an action chapter. Hopefully it's better than I think it is...

(**Divider!**)

**Shards of the Past**

**Chapter Ten: Battle on the River**

After leading the clan out of Sarai's cabin and onto the barges, he led them aft at the insistence of the Moogle, who was the captain of Sarai's troupe–and whose name was Gustav.

"You must see it to form a plan, kupo," he insisted, leading them forward. "I'm not a very kupo tactician myself. My mistress Sarai...she gave us orders." The last words held more than a tinge of uncertain sadness.

"Don't worry," Tosca whispered, "she'll live. Marche will protect her with his life."

"I hope so," Gustav squeaked.

The rest of the short journey passed in silence. They tried to avoid notice from the soldiers on top of the dam as they jumped between barges and snuck down the narrow side corridors, but all the while, Tosca couldn't help but shake the feeling that all this stealth would be for naught.

Suddenly Gustav raised a short, furry finger to his mouth and motioned for David and Tosca to come with him. The two friends followed him around the corner to the helm of the lead barge, where their mouths presently went agape.

Not having witnessed the monstrous wall in Kudik, their amazement came partially from confusion, but they were simultaneously stunned by the size of the dam. The behemoth of black stone rose fifteen feet from the placid surface of the water; a sheer wall of night in the middle of the crystal-blue water. As Gustav had said, the scarlet and gold flag of the Sprohmknights flew from the parapets, where at least twenty armed soldiers stood at the ready. Tosca's sharp eyes surveyed the scene, looking for a weakness in the defenses. Disturbingly, she noticed that the man in the Imperial Guard uniform–ostensibly, Llednar–was no longer standing there, but she immediately shrugged it off. She scrutinized the uniforms of the other soldiers.

"Rotten fruit of Exodus," she cursed under her breath as she leaned over the David and Gustav. "They've got mages and archers up there. The archers are protected, but I think the mages could be vulnerable. If we can disable part of their long range force with magic–"

David shook his head in disagreement. "Height and distance affects magic just as much as it does arrows." He gazed quickly at the dam. "They certainly have the upper hand in this battle, and no mistake."

For a moment, there was a contemplative silence. Then Gustav's eyes widened considerably, and he began to whisper excitedly.

"I have an idea! My clan has several Jugglers. Their abilities could speed all you up, and my Gadgeteers can make the enemy weak." He surveyed David and Tosca's distressed faces. "What? It's a kupo plan!"

"Not to be a pessimist," David whispered apprehensively–knowing full well that he was in fact being a pessimist–"but I'm afraid that won't be of much help. Even if we have speed on our side, they have more power, and the increase of speed that your Jugglers could provide will only serve to make us tired more quickly."

"Will not, kupo!" Gustav said indignantly.

"I'm afraid so," David said.

As the two began to argue about the finer points of magical battles, Tosca peered over the prow of the boat, searching for a sign, any way possible to get past the dam...

For some reason, the rush of the water in the river caught her ears. She followed the flow of the river to the base of the dam, where she observed a curious and distressing phenomenon–white foam sprayed upward from the base as the water continued to flow towards the dam...but how was that? She squinted and looked again, trying to discern what was going on at the base of the dam. And then she noticed that the water level descended considerably just before it reached the base...

"Guys," she breathed. "We have a problem."

David and Gustav turned. "Yes? What is it?"

Tosca started to speak, but a sudden and deafening boom from behind them drowned her out. As the sound resounded in their ears, a concussive wave slammed into them, nearly throwing them overboard in tandem with a brilliant white flash and a blaze of heat. It threw them violently to the deck, slamming David and Gustav into the prow of the boat, knocking them both out. Tosca was barely aware enough to throw her hands out in front of her, softening her crash into the prow.

After a moment of noise, light, and confusion, silence again took over. Tosca groaned and coughed, rolling over onto her back. The wood felt different now, softer...

She opened her eyes, almost immediately wishing she hadn't. Thin flakes of ash fell from the sky like snow, only in the dead heat of summer. She sat up and saw that the entire barge was blanketed in a thin layer of the stuff, and so were the rest of the barges...

In an instant, her heart nearly stopped. The barge where the clan had left Marche and Sarai only minutes ago was now completely gone. A sooty, ugly gap was left in the train of barges where the gypsy's cabin had once been, the water stained and muddy with ash and charred wood. There was no sign of Marche or Sarai.

She glanced over at David and Gustav, who were showing no signs of stirring. Deciding that they could handle themselves, she stood up and vaulted the gap between barges, hurrying to the empty place in the barge train, hoping that she would find Marche and Sarai alive in the water, but somehow knowing that it wouldn't be so easy...

She brushed by the rest of the clan, who tried to stop her, but she shoved her way through and continued to run. Finally, she skidded to a stop when Montblanc and Lidenbok stepped out in front of her.

"Where are they?" she gasped, out of breath. "I didn't even see anything, I just felt it...it..."

Lidenbok put a scaly hand on Tosca's shoulder. "It'sss okay. Marche, at least, isss all right...for the time being."

"Where is he?" the Viera demanded. "I want to see him!"

Montblanc stepped aside, motioning to the right bank. "Go ahead. He's over there."

She hurried over the edge of the barge, bracing herself for the awful sight she was sure was coming. Instead, she gasped in complete and utter shock.

Two blazing figures fought on the right bank, wielding swords of pure fire and wearing robes of light. Their every movement sent wayward flames into the forest nearby, scorching and smoldering the earth beneath them. The very heat of the duel was enough to make the nearby river steam lightly. Tosca watched as they fought, hacking, slashing, parrying, and dodging with phenomenal speed, flipping away with incredible athleticism, then reaching out and sending tendrils of fire and darkness spiraling from their outstretched fingers.

"This...this can't be him," she declared, swallowing uneasily. "These two fight like...like demons. Like they have nothing to lose. Like the battle they fight is the only thing that exists..."

"It isss," Lidenbok said grimly, taking a place beside Tosca at the edge of the barge. "And the other is Llednar."

Tosca could barely speak. There were too many emotions churning inside of her.

Fire and blood and steel and ice swept past Marche's vision in the blink of an eye. The power he felt was extraordinary. His blood was fire, his limbs were water, his movements the wind screaming past his face. He may have been wounded, but he felt no pain. The sole focus of his thoughts, his will, his anger, was leaping toward him...

He brought his blades forward, clashing with Llednar's just in front of his face, then pushed him away with a kick to the chest. Flipping backward, he landed gracefully on the charred ground as Llednar crash-landed, then got up weakly.

Llednar's face was gaunt, his eyes holes of cold fire. The all-out exertion of the battle was wearing him down, but Marche's lack of visible exertion was confounding. Apparently even a little of the power of time was extremely potent. But how could he have harnessed it so fast, without alerting Llednar? The Biskmatar cursed the gypsy under his breath. Somehow, she must have relinquished her power to Marche.

He focused his mind on a spell and threw it forward, simultaneously jumping to the side, avoiding the counterattack from his foe. An orb of black fire erupted from his palm and screamed toward Marche.

He wasn't there!

Llednar barely had time to register his shock before he felt white-hot fire slice into his body and a fist crash into his jaw with the force of a boulder. The Biskmatar flew backward, skidding on the ground and stopping just shy of the shoreline.

Marche landed, a fiendish smile on his face, and abruptly flipped backward, avoiding a dark tendril that lashed out at his legs. It was a weak attack. Llednar was getting tired.

Emboldened by this perceived new revelation, Marche charged forward, his swords flashing brilliantly in his hands. "You're mine, Llednar! This is for Sarai!"

He brought his swords down in a brutal arc, watching lines of fire scream towards their connecting point at Llednar's head...

Suddenly, darkness enveloped him. Cold fingers crept up his spine, reaching into his mind...

He screamed and flew backward, crashing to the earth and rolling into the thorny, blackened undergrowth of the forest.

He blinked uneasily, the feeling of pain returning to him in a violently sudden wave. Near the edge of the bank. Llednar stood and hobbled over to where Marche lay.

When he reached his fallen foe, he stopped. "You fight well, Marche. You always did, of course, but now...your control of the powers of time is remarkable."

Marche grimaced and gave a fiery glance in Llednar's direction.

The Biskmatar held up his hand and let the blade of fire slice into it. He looked at it pitifully. "Really now...is that any way to treat the man who is allowing you live?"

"You...can't...kill me," Marche slurred, his speech impaired by the intense pain. "I...have...to finish you!"

Llednar laughed coldly. "Perhaps another day, hmm?" Then, with Marche looking on powerlessly, the arcane design appeared on his forehead and shimmered brightly.

"Don't worry," the Biskmatar whispered softly. "You'll have your chance again...I'll make sure of that." With those words, Llednar disappeared before Marche's eyes.

As soon as he was gone, Marche felt all traces of the fiery power of time vanish, replaced by a crushing feeling of hopelessness and sorrow. Soon the pain grew unbearable, and he closed his eyes and entered the inviting realm of unconsciousness.

"...uhnh..."

"David? Wake up, quick."

"...whanh?"

"David, wake up already!"

David's eyes shot open. "Ouch!" he groaned, rubbing his cheek where Tosca had just slapped him. He glared at her. "What on earth was that for?"

"You were unconscious after the blast. I had to wake you quick. There isn't much time."

"Wha-what blast?"

Tosca sighed exasperatedly. "...Never mind. Look, I just need you to help me out with this plan. We have to get off the barge."

"Why..." David rubbed his head, trying to understand what she was saying, and finding it difficult due to his splitting headache. "Why do we need to get off of the barges? Are we at Sprohm?"

"No! For Exodus' sake, David, we're heading toward the dam at breakneck speed! That's why we need to get off now!"

"The dam...whadda?" David started to turn toward the sound of rushing water, but Tosca suddenly tackled him to the deck. He heard the _thwack_ of an arrow slamming into wood, and looked up over Tosca's shoulder to see the shaft of an arrow sticking out of the cabin wall, level with where his head had been seconds earlier. He quickly remembered what was going on after that.

"Of course...we need to get off the boat. How about swimming for shore?"

Tosca shook her head and curled up under the protective shadow of the prow. "That option's no good, unfortunately. The Sprohmknights have deployed soldiers on the right bank, and we're too far away from the left bank. Swimming would leave us vulnerable to fire from both groups."

"We can at least get some people to shore...I'm sure we have some Feather Boots in storage."

"We did. Azimov, Matilda, and the twins used them already. I had to get them to Marche's side, so I wasn't really thinking strategy at that point."

"Wait," David said, something clicking in his mind. "The explosion...Marche survived?"

Tosca nodded. "Yeah. He fought Llednar on the right bank. Practically destroyed it."

"He's okay?"

She nodded again. "I guess so. Matilda yelled that he was fine, but I sent the rest of them over there to protect him as soon as I saw red and gold banners come out of the wall."

David nodded solemnly, then got up slowly and peered over the prow of the boat. He gasped.

"We've spent too much time talking."

"Yes, we have," Tosca agreed.

A tiny squeak caused both of them to jump. Gustav rolled over and rubbed his eyes. "Whadda...what's going on, kupo?"

"We're thinking up a way to get off these deathtraps," Tosca whispered. David, for the moment, was lost in thought.

"That's easy! We swim, kupo!" He looked expectantly at Tosca, as though expecting her to congratulate him on an excellent idea. Instead, he was met with an exasperated stare. "I'm a kupo good swimmer," he added belatedly.

Tosca was about to launch into her second explanation of their dire circumstances when David suddenly covered her mouth. "Where are your people?" he asked Gustav.

The Moogle thought for a moment. "A couple of barges down, I think. Hold on a second." He reached a tiny hand into his pocket and withdrew a silver whistle in the shape of a chocobo. He put it into his mouth and blew on it. A loud, screeching melody akin to a Lamia's song skittered into the air, thankfully carried away quickly on the strong wind.

Moments that seemed far too long passed without any sign of a reply, other than another arrow lodging itself in the deck, scaring the wits out of the three trapped clan members. Then, several barges down from theirs, David spotted a pink and yellow scarf wave out from a doorway to the cabin.

"They heard your signal," he told Gustav.

The Moogle nodded. "What do you need them to do?"

"Have them find Sharu, the Mage with his face hidden under a hat. And if any of them can scrounge up some ethers, have them help us too." He cautiously peered over the prow once again, staring at the great black monstrosity rising up from the river. They were growing closer to its massive shadow with every passing second. He sighed. "We're going to need it."

Matilda emerged from the scorched forest quietly, her white robes stained gray with soot. Azimov stood there, waiting for her, clutching his staff anxiously.

"Is he alright?" he asked her.

She nodded. "He's weak, certainly, and he burns with a fever, but I imagine it will pass...it's likely just a side effect of his body temperature returning to normal."

He sighed, relieved. "That is good news. At least he isn't gravely injured."

She began to nod in agreement, but then paused apprehensively, her eyes falling to the charred earth.

Azimov frowned. "You aren't so sure, are you."

She shook her head. "All of his wounds are cauterized, so there wasn't anything that really needed to be healed, but...something resonates from him. It made me sad, looking at him laying there...broken, burned, and asleep." She looked up. "I'm worried about him, Azimov. This is the second time now he's collapsed like this. Whatever is inside of him...it's poisoning him. And it's not just affecting his body...there's damage there that no healing spell will ever cure."

Azimov stepped forward and embraced her gently. She began to sob in his arms. "It's okay, my dear..." he whispered softly. "He's strong...he always has been. He'll get through this." He sighed, attempting to convince his own mind that his words were true. "He'll be fine."

The sound of footsteps pounding behind them caused Azimov to whirl around, a spell coming to the tip of his tongue. It fell away as soon as he saw that it was Diesel and Henri hurrying toward him. A look of worry crossed his face momentarily.

Diesel stopped two feet in front of him, bending over and panting to catch his breath. "They're...coming. Fast."

Henri nodded in agreement. "Two bends...till they're here."

Azimov frowned. "We need a way to deter them," Matilda whispered in his ear. He nodded, fingering the pouches on his belt and sash carefully, as though weighing the value of each in the current situation.

"Matilda," he barked suddenly, turning to her. "Go back and check on Marche one last time. Do whatever you can to hide him, protect him...do what you can, then return to my side."

She nodded, then rushed back into the forest. Azimov turned again and, looking past the twins, saw Lidenbok crouching on the roof of a passing barge cabin. The Dragoon winked slyly at him through the eye slit in his helmet.

Azimov nodded politely. Then, absently, he said, "Stand back, boys. This could get hot."

Diesel and Henri stepped back obediently, more than a bit frightened by the Alchemist's enigmatic words. Azimov stepped forward slowly, until he had a clear vantage point of the approaching army. Then–to the twins' utter bewilderment–he withdrew a stick of white chalk from his belt and knelt, carefully etching a circumscribed pentagram into the charred earth around him. Apparently satisfied with his work–and oblivious to the increasingly loud roar of the approaching enemy's footsteps, he withdrew a rough, black rock from another pouch. Chalk still in hand, he drew arcane symbols around the edges of the circle, then placed the chalk back in its pouch. Finally, he clutched the rock in both hands and stood erect, waiting.

"What's he going to do?" Diesel whispered to his brother.

"I don't know," answered Henri. "But whatever it is, he had better do it quickly. They're coming closer every second."

No sooner had Henri uttered those words, though, than Azimov began chanting–at first in a low mumble, barely above a whisper, but gradually swelling until even the twin fighters behind him could hear the incantation:

_"Creas estrenum solarus et'meteora!"_

And just as the leading edge of the Sprohmknights' formation was rounding the last bend, Azimov hurled the tiny black rock at the approaching soldiers, hitting the ground at their feet.

The effect was instantaneous. A brilliant flash of light was followed by a resounding boom, the force of which threw the twins to the ground, shielding them from the heat wave. The gargantuan fireball towered over the soldiers, consuming the riverbank, the forest, and the first few lines of soldiers. Another concussive wave sent the twins skidding even further away, but Azimov remained upright in his magical circle, unmoved by the mammoth explosion he had created.

As a hazy mist of soot, steam and smoke enveloped the battlefield, Azimov stepped out of his circle and scuffed it out with his shoes. He turned and surveyed the disaster he had created, squinting in order to see through the smog. He smiled grimly as he noticed a tiny, black pebble resting in the exact center of the gigantic crater, which was filling up with river water, creating a great mud pit separating the Sprohmknights from Marche's clan.

Diesel and Henri suddenly appeared by Azimov's side. "H-h-how did you..."

"...do that...?" the other finished.

Azimov shrugged and leaned on his staff weakly for support. "It's just a simple bit of magic...uhnh." He winced and drew himself to the staff, increasingly leaning on it for support. "You had better hurry over there. They'll...not stay dazed for long."

Though reluctant to leave Azimov in his condition, Diesel and Henri obeyed. Quickly, they jumped into the mud pit, but didn't sink–the Feather Boots were still working.

Drawing their blades, they began running across the crater, watching intently as the haze dissipated before their eyes.

On the other side of the crater, at least ten charred corpses lay distorted, twisted and broken on the ground. The other ranks of soldiers were still attempting to regain their wits. An arrow shot out of the back line somewhere, but the twins easily sidestepped it, turning it into a chance to split up.

They moved in tandem, though in opposite directions, their blades shimmering green with the power of the wind. Each skidded to a stop and pointed their blades at the crowd of soldiers. Blades of wind sliced forward through the air, burying themselves in two of the front line soldiers.

Just as they were about to react, a purple-orange comet streaked down out of the sky and fell among them, skewering a hapless White Mage. Lidenbok had landed.

The twins bounded forward, another pair of Air Blade attacks slashing into a Defender that had been approaching Lidenbok from behind.

"Thanksss," the Dragoon hissed, blocking sword strikes from two Gladiators and smacking another on the side of his helm, sending him crumpling to the ground.

Suddenly the twins were with Lidenbok, fighting as mirror images of one another, flanking the Dragoon. A block to the side, a wild, spinning slash, and an uppercut with the pommel of the sword. Two more Sprohmknights down.

From across the crater, Azimov watched as the battle raged on, his hands firmly gripping the top of his staff. The soft touch of a hand on his shoulder surprised him.

"Is he safe?" he asked, not even looking to confirm that Matilda was behind him.

"Yes," she answered. "Though your Meteor spell very nearly threw me into the river."

"My apologies."

She smiled and moved around to his side. Only then did she notice the look of pain in his eyes. "Need a little help?" she asked.

He shook his head. "They seem to be doing fine on their own."

"I was talking about you."

"I'm just a little weak from casting the spell. I'll be fine for now. I have an ether in my pocket if necessary."

She frowned at him. "Don't use it as a crutch, or you'll grow weaker."

"I know that," he snapped. Then he sighed. "Look...I'll be careful. I won't even need to cast another spell if Lidenbok and the twins do their job."

Matilda viewed the battle across the crater with some interest. It did appear that the trio were doing quite well on their own, though the number of crimson and gold shields concerned her...

She stepped forward and closed her eyes, shutting out the sounds of the battle across the way, and raised her staff to the heavens. Then, in a clear, pure voice, she began to sing a pure, achingly beautiful melody in the ancient language of magic.

_"Aren'jadai varus eskoler sferde_

_ loren sothe orus'xar depferus_

_ esker doren et'parde naton_

_ yen solothren garendai cfarön..."_

As the last syllable hung in the air, a shaft of sunlight struck the sky-blue crystal at the apex of Matilda's staff, glowing in increasing intensity until the aura was enough to blind the eyes of the soldiers across the crater.

The battle there effectively stopped, as the Sprohmknights were well trained, enough to realize that, fighting blind, you were just as likely to wound your own as you were the enemy. Diesel and Henri found each other and stood back to back, swords raised defensively, just in case the enemy tried something stupid.

"Do you...feel that?"

"The chill?"

"Yeah...it's odd..."

Feeling a rush of air, Diesel raised his sword and blocked a glancing blow, following it with a slam from the pommel of his sword. He looked over his shoulder and over the crater, where Matilda was standing, staff raised to the sky, amidst the dissipating blue glow.

"It's summon magic," he whispered to his brother. "Shiva."

As he uttered those words, snow began to fall. The Sprohmknights were utterly confused by this phenomenon, and stood entranced as the sky was rent above them.

From the shattered sky descended a maiden dressed in glittering armor and wearing a spiny, ice-blue helmet. She wielded a gigantic icicle-shaped sword, and snow-white hair billowed out behind her like a cloud.

Hovering above the battlefield, she raised her sword and spoke in a masculine, arresting voice. "Let the judgment of ice be initiated."

In an instant, a thousand swords of ice cascaded down upon the battlefield, as though all the stars in the sky were falling in unison. Not one enemy was left uninjured by the ice storm. As the maiden departed and the sky repaired itself, the icicles melted, blood and water running together, turning the battlefield into a messy quagmire, leaving only the twin standing upright, hovering just inches above the earth.

"Thisss isss a messs," Lidenbok said, wiping a smear of blood away from his eye slit and lifting a booted foot out of the molten earth with a vulgar squishing sound.

"I couldn't agree more," Diesel murmured.

"Yes," Henri agreed. "She really should stick to healing magic."

Awkward silence followed the exchange, punctuated by moans and grunts from the fallen soldiers. But as the silence began to wear on, the three became aware of a strange sound in the background.

"Do you hear that?" Diesel asked.

Lidenbok nodded. "It sssounds like russshing water."

Henri turned to river, then let out a low whistle. "You guys may want to see this."

They all turned, just in time to see light flash from the roof of one of the lead barges. As though in response to a call, the water in front of the barges suddenly drew upward into a massive tidal wave that towered into the air before it rushed forward and slammed into the dam in an explosion of foam and spray.

Across the crater, Matilda and Azimov gaped in awe at the display of magical power.

"Sharu's Phantasm Skills..." he murmured. "Ingenious."

Matilda nodded. "There's a problem, though. Illusion spells take a lot of time and energy to cast, and they have very little of either.

He saw that she spoke the truth. With every passing second, the train of barges inched closer to the great black dam. From their vantage point, Sharu appeared hunched over, leaning on his staff for support.

"You're right," he whispered. Clutching her wrist, he started to rush to the edge of the crater. "Come on, we can help them from inside the dam."

"No," she whispered, drawing away from him and pointing a slender, pointy fingernail at the scene on the river. "Look there."

Azimov followed her fingernail, and suddenly recognition dawned on his face. He focused his gaze on the bouncing red antennae of two Moogle Jugglers, and at least two more Time Mages, all surrounding Sharu and intently focused on him, using all of their abilities to their fullest extent.

Suddenly, light flashed again from Sharu's staff. Gravity pushed down on the water ahead of him, coalescing and warping it into a massive tsunami that gathered height and power until finally the figures on the barge cowered in its massive shadow.

Sharu raised his staff again and pushed it forward, sending the gigantic wave racing toward the obsidian wall with alarming speed.

In an instant, the wave slammed into the obsidian wall, shaking it and the ground around it. For a moment, Azimov's heart sank as the water streaked harmlessly down the front of the wall. Then, inexplicably, the dam exploded in a shower of black stone and steam. As chunks of darkness rained down, crushing the lead barge, the river rushed forward with resurgent force, propelling the rest of the barges forward until they ran aground in the newly-formed rapids, shattering the next two barges before Sharu's came to rest on a bed of splinters and planks, nestled neatly between two outcroppings.

Both Azimov and Matilda breathed a sigh of relief as Sharu and the rest of the clan–along with Gustav and the rest of Sarai's troupe–made their way over the rocky path to the shoreline.

"I'll go greet them down there," Azimov told her, beginning to walk forward. "Anyway, I want to get a sample of that black rock."

Matilda nodded. "I'll try to rouse Marche."

Azimov stopped and turned to face her. Her hands were gripping her staff nervously, and her eyes betrayed her obvious worry and concern.

"Don't worry," he said to her. "He'll be fine, you'll see."

She looked up at him through misty eyes. "I know."

He smiled, then turned and walked away.

Matilda turned and began to walk back to the forest. "I know he'll be all right..." she murmured to herself. "...I'm just not sure he'll be the same."


	11. A Mysterious Offer

**A/N: **_Oh, yeah…a new chapter of my most critically acclaimed (can I say that?) story is finally here! Yeah…well, I guess it serves me right that no one is applauding. After all, it did take me absolutely FOREVER to get around to writing another chapter…and yet, I finally did it. See, I just planned out the rest of the story, which now includes the end! Yay for me! (Oh, and I have a rough sequel planned out…but we'll see if that happens…when I finish this story!)_

_Yeah…I'm still not sure why I have to do this (I've written what…eight stories? And I still do this every chapter…), but I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING RELATED TO THIS STORY! IT IS THE PROPERTY OF SQUARE ENIX! I ONLY OWN MY STORY LINE! …and my interpretation of Llednar (which, if you haven't figured it out by now, is quite different from that of the game )…_

Shards of the Past 

**Chapter Eleven: A Mysterious Offer**

**(DIVIDER!)**

It had been three long, arduous days since the battle on the river when Clan Ragnarok stumbled into Sprohm. They looked fearsome, the very image of battle hardened warriors—their clothes dirty and bloody, their weapons stained and dull, and their eyes dark with sadness and fatigue. By that point, word of their battle at the mysterious dam had spread throughout the town like wildfire across the Giza Plains, brought by deserters of the Sprohmknights and perpetuated by half-drunk bards in the shadowy corners of pubs and shops until it became a near mythical yarn of valor, courage, and impossible victory.

And so it was that the members of Clan Ragnarok sat in the side room of Horace's Pub—known for its owner's connections to informants in the palace—drinking their mead in uneasy silence as the curious stares of other patrons bored into their backs like arrow shafts.

Matilda raised her mug to her thin lips and allowed the hearty liquid to trickle down her throat. She sighed sadly as she felt the warmth of the liquor spread through her body, even as the cold of worry and sadness overtook it in a wash as soon as she looked at _him_.

Marche was standing beside the bar, leaning against a nearby beam and looking out on the crowd, seeing all but noticing nothing, his eyes distant and troubled. He had woke from his feverish sleep just a day before the clan had walked into Sprohm, but he seemed to be suffering no ill aftereffects from his mysterious illness…

Nevertheless, Matilda was concerned about her leader. Before Ezel's death, Marche had been an understanding peacemaker who listened before ever going into action. Before that day, his sky-blue eyes had sparkled with innocence…but with each passing day, those eyes grew more and more overcast…

Marche turned his head and glanced at the clan's table, but then his head turned. Matilda knew he wasn't really looking at them. He was thinking of someone else, she knew. Another sip of mead washed down her throat, and she shuddered, banishing her melancholy thoughts away.

"You should stop worrying about him, you know."

She turned her head slowly to the left and met David's sympathetic gaze. She smiled thinly. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to those on the other side of the pub." He smiled and took another sip of his mug, watching as the lamplight reflected off of his many rings and the reflections danced on the walls.

"Aren't you…worried about him?" Matilda whispered hesitantly. "I mean…I can't be the only one who's noticed…he's changed so much…"

"That he has, Matilda. But I'm still not sure that that's entirely a bad thing—"

"Not a bad thing? You can't be serious! This…this illness…whatever it is…it can't be healed with any kind of magic. His wounds are deeper than that…it's like they're wounds on his soul! This isn't just some fever that will pass in a week or so. David, this is serious!"

"Calm down, Matilda!" David hissed, gripping her arm. Miraculously, the other members of the clan had paid little attention their argument, but David didn't want to take that chance. In a voice barely above a whisper, he said, "I know you're worried Matilda, but—"

"Worried? I think I'm a bit past that, David!"

"Listen! I know you think Marche has a problem…and I'm not entirely ready to disagree with you. But I don't think that we have reason to doubt him. Even if his character has changed, he still leads us in the same, strong way as before. And I think that as long as he does that…"

"…You think we should leave him be."

David nodded.

Matilda sighed and took another, hearty sip of mead from her mug. "I don't know, David…I just don't know."

**(DIVIDER)**

Tapping his fingers impatiently on the cold countertop, Marche surveyed the pub with ever-watchful eyes. His clan sat in the side room, separated from the main room by a gauzy red curtain, though he could see them through the narrow doorway. He had left them there when he came to the bar to ask Horace for information about Llednar's whereabouts.

That had been a half-hour ago. Since then, Horace had been casually making his rounds around the room, stopping every now and again and leaning in to talk to someone. Currently, he was standing the far back corner, talking to someone who Marche could not fully see.

Casually, Marche leaned outward and tried to see around Horace's girth, to no avail; the only thing that he could see of Horace's mysterious informant was a pair of shining green eyes…

The shadowy figure's eyes locked with Marche's. They were deep and dark, like the jungles of Materiwood on a clear, starry night…

The shadow blinked, abruptly stopping their staring contest and turned back to Horace, who leaned in closer to hear whatever it was the hidden person was saying.

Marche scanned the room again idly. Members of numerous different clans sat around their tables clutching mugs, hastily averting their eyes each time Marche's passed over them. Many of them, though, were staring at the silent clan in the side room, visible only as shadows beyond the veil. Snippets of their conversations reached his ears, but the went in one ear and out the other. The people of Ivalice could do what they would—it was of little consequence to him now. No, the only thing driving him was Llednar—finding him, destroying him, and preventing his plan from ever coming to fruition.

As his gaze washed over the pub, a flash of silver caused him to do a double take. He whipped his head back around and blinked.

There she stood, draped in the long, flowing robes she had worn that day. Her eyes were wide and bleary with tears, and her long, silver hair blew in front of her face, covering her beautiful face like a funeral shroud…

_Sarai…_

He blinked twice, but when he looked back, she was gone.

He sighed and shuddered, trying to envision the breath he exhaled as the cleansing of his soul, but found it impossible to do. Her eyes, her last stare, and her voice, screaming in his head, would be ingrained in his psyche forever. And for that, Llednar would pay.

He looked around again and saw no sign of Horace. Sighing, he dug into his pocket, withdrew a few gil, and tossed them onto the counter. Suddenly, he felt a heavy hand grip his shoulder. He whirled around, his hand easily finding one of his swords at his side, only to discover Horace standing behind him.

"There's no need to pay me until you leave, Marche," the barman said with a hearty chuckle. "At least until you hear the information I found for you."

"I'm sorry…it's just, you took so long, and—"

"Don't worry about it." Horace motioned for Marche to follow him. After a compulsory glance into the side room, Marche quickly followed.

The barkeep led Marche through a maze of tables, nearly all of which were occupied by drunken, boisterous patrons—if they weren't, Horace made note of it and made sure they were on his next pass. The customers kept each other's attention well, so they paid no heed to the small parade that wound its way past them.

A few twists and turns later, Marche found himself in the far corner of the pub. The darkness here was purposeful, Marche noted—the candleabrae on the wall were present, but not lit—and the table and accompanying chairs were stained darker than the rest, as if to melt into the shadows. _Not that my white robes won't make me noticed over here_, he thought dryly.

Seated at the opposite end of the table was the green-eyed shadow that Horace had been speaking with earlier. His features were still blurred out by darkness, even up close, but his eyes stared unblinkingly at Marche.

"How do you, Marche?" the shadow said. His voice—for the shadow was indeed a he—was earthy and deep, like an echo from the bowels of the Tubola Caverns.

Marche nodded kindly in reply. Horace motioned to the shadow. "Marche, may I present Kain. He is an excellent informant, and formerly a brilliant soldier in the Sprohmknights. I trust his word absolutely."

Kain bowed graciously. "Thank you for your kind words, Horace, but this young man doesn't need to know that. He must judge the merit of my word for himself."

Horace chuckled. "Always the sage with the spear, you are." He conjured two mugs seemingly out of nowhere and placed them on the table in front of Marche and Kain, then backed away with a bow and scurried away from the corner.

Kain shook his head. "He has a good heart. He's just crazy sometimes."

"Mmmm…" murmured Marche, taking a sip of ale.

Moments passed in silence. Then, setting his mug down on the table, Marche looked up at Kain.

"Well?" he said.

Kain eyed him oddly over the rim of his mug. "Well what?"

"I assume you have information about Llednar for me, else Horace would not have brought me to you. Am I correct?"

Kain laughed and set down his own mug. "Hmm…Yes, I do have information for you…about your friend Llednar, and more besides." He took another sip of ale.

Marche glared dubiously at him. "And?"

Kain raised an eyebrow. "And we shall get to it in due course."

"Due course?"

"Yes." In the darkness, Marche thought he saw Kain's fingers moving under the table. As subtly as possible, his fingers touched the pommel of his sword. But before he could do anything, a dim red light flashed under the table. Marche winced as the candelabra on the table suddenly sparked to life.

When his eyes were sufficiently adjusted, he saw Kain sitting in front of him. Dressed in the garb of the ninja order, his turban covering his face, his sharp features were still visible.

"I thought we might continue this little discussion in a more personable manner," Kain said nonchalantly. "I find that light helps me think more clearly."

Marche nodded wordlessly. He had just noticed the silver hilts of two sheathed swords gleaming at Kain's side. _So he doesn't _really _trust me, either_, he thought.

Without waiting for Marche to say anything, Kain leaned over the table and peered inquisitively at the clan leader's face. "My goodness…I hadn't noticed that before…"

Marche felt more than a little odd as Kain seemed to inspect his every pore with his eyes. "Er…Kain?"

Kain looked up at him, then leaned back sheepishly in his chair. "Oh…sorry. Sometimes I get a little…carried away." He hastily sipped his ale. "But…I have to ask…were you born that way?"

It was Marche's turn to raise an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"…Your eyes," Kain whispered. "You don't usually see that color in Ivalice. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen anyone with those eyes, except…"

He trailed off into silence. Marche frowned, then proceeded to implore him, "Except whom?"

Kain looked as though he was contemplating whether to tell Marche or not, and judging by his furtive sideways glances, he was leaning towards not.

"If you must know, I was born with them," Marche said evenly. "I suppose it might be rare, but I try not to draw attention to such things."  
Kain looked up at Marche. "Oh? I find that hard to believe."

"How so?"

Kain sat up straight in his chair, facing Marche eye to eye. "First," he began, "the fact that you stood in the middle of the great room of this inn in pure white robes. That doesn't seem like behavior for someone who wishes to avoid attention." Marche said nothing. "Also," continued Kain, "tales of your recent exploits prove that you and your clan aren't shy about heroic deeds."

"What!" Marche nearly choked on the ale he had been sipping. "What are you talking about?"

Kain feigned incredulence, placing a gauntleted hand on his chest. "But surely you've heard the rumors? About how the infamous Clan Ragnarok took down an entire contingent of the Sprohmknights, destroying an impregnable wall of black stone in the process, all without suffering a single casualty."

Marche smiled ruefully. "For being just rumors, they sound awfully accurate. I heard more farfetched tales in the first five minutes of walking into Sprohm."

Kain merely shrugged.

Marche sighed, fatigued by the turn of the conversation. Still, he was genuinely curious to discover what the mysterious informant knew about the battle on the river. It was plain that he knew more than he was telling. "And what about me, Kain? What have you heard about me?"

The ninja looked hesitant. Then, slowly, he murmured, "It is said that you fought a demon by using the demon's own powers against it. Does that sound familiar?"

Marche laughed uneasily and sipped his ale. "Now, I believe you have a rumor on your hands."

"Mmm…and I don't suppose this has anything to do with your eye color, does it?"

That stopped Marche in mid-sip. He set the mug down with shaky fingers, crossing his arms just to steady them and keep them from shivering. The shock of Kain's assumption had nearly knocked him off his chair. "H-h-how did you?"

"Ssssh!" Kain hissed. "This is not the time nor the place for this conversation." He eyed the scene behind Marche suspiciously. "I think it's time to return to your clan now."

"B-but I thought you said…" Marche cleared his throat in an attempt to displace the shock. "I thought you said you had information for me…about Llednar." His face went steely. "Or was that just a ruse?"

The dark-robed shadow shook his head. "No, it was not a ruse. I do have the information you seek, and more if you should prove you merit it by completing your current task."

"Current…task?"

Kain sighed. "Yes, I do believe it is time to return to your clan. They will want to be present for this decision, as they should. Come along, then."

Without leaving Marche to ponder his enigmatic words, Kin stood and ducked down the side aisle of the pub. As he stepped into the aura of brighter candlelight, Marche noticed that he walked with a slight limp, favoring his left leg as he turned the corner and walked to the front of the great room.

He stood up and swiftly followed him across the room. Kain saw him catch up, and with a nod to Horace, he walked to the door of the side room. Marche bowed respectfully to the barman and joined Kain at the doorway, followed by the curious stare of a few onlookers and Horace.

Kain started to turn the corner, but stopped abruptly and turned to Marche. "Perhaps it would be better if you introduce me to your clan, and not the other way round, hmm?"

Marche nodded in agreement and brushed past Kain, then turned and walked into the side room.

Matilda was the first to notice Marche's arrival—almost immediately—but she didn't announce it, instead avoiding her leader's gaze, leaning over, and whispering in David's ear. He looked up and frowned, but said nothing either.

Marche grimaced. Apparently he was going to have to do this the old-fashioned, awkward way. How nice of David and Matilda to defer to him.

With an apologetic look to Kain, Marche cleared his throat loudly. With a rush of cloth and scraping of chairs, the clan turned and stared at Marche and the newcomer.

"This is Kain," Marche said flatly. "He's an informant who claims to have some information for us about Llednar, but he thought it prudent to divulge it to the entire clan at once, rather than solely to me."

Kain nodded respectfully. Matilda offered him an extra chair from behind her, and he took it near the head of the table. Marche sat next to him, in the head chair. David offered Kain his mug of ale, and the Ninja took a sip with a grateful gesture.

After a brief, awkward silence, he clasped his hands together on the table. "I will be brief. I owe that much to you. As Marche told you, I have information regarding Llednar, whom I am told you are seeking. According to my contacts, he and the Bervenian Royal Guard have three warehouses in the same waterside district of Baguba Port. They run their own surveillance, so it's difficult to tell what sort of operation they're running from the location."

"Are there no tales about the buildings?" David inquired. "Even if they are just lunatic ramblings?"

Kain's eyes betrayed surprise, but he shook his head. "No…" Then, his eyes narrowed. "There was one…but it was far too outlandish to be real."

"What was it?" Azimov asked.

The Ninja sighed. "…A thief heard rumors of a treasure hidden in the warehouses. He tried to steal it late one night. The next day, he was locked in the local mental institution, rambling about demons, chandeliers, magic circles, and eyes. They were quite incoherent, and it was impossible to make anything out of it."

Marche frowned and looked at David, whose face bore a similar expression. For the ravings of a lunatic, they certainly sounded like things that Clan Ragnarok was currently experiencing.

Kain gave Marche a quizzical glance. "You look like you can make some of it out."

Marche shrugged deftly. "I was just pondering. Nothing more."

The Ninja eyed the leader suspiciously, but did not inquire further. "In any case," he continued, "there is little information about Llednar himself that you do not already know. Prior to two years ago, there is absolutely no record of his existence. Even since then, he has been a difficult man to track down. It's almost as though he never appears in the same place twice."

"Thank you, Kain," said Marche, interrupting him, "but my clan and I would like to be able to sleep tonight before we leave for Baguba, and it is getting very late." He rose from his chair, followed by Kain. "If you'll follow me, we can discuss a method of payment." The Ninja nodded and followed Marche out of the room, followed by the perplexed stares of the clan.

As they entered the main room and walked to the door, Kain could barely contain his apprehension. "What was that for?" he hissed at Marche. "It was rather obvious that I was cut off for a reason, but I can't fathom—"

Marche turned around slowly. "It's nothing personal. You said he's rarely ever in the same place twice. If he's got a warehouse in Baguba, there's a chance we could catch him there."

"But you don't know if he'll be there or not! You might have to wait for weeks, maybe months—"

"Then we'll wait. It's as simple as that. Though, somehow, I have a feeling that we won't be waiting for long." A smug smile flashed across his face as he looked at Kain's, but he quickly banished it. "Now, about the payment—"

"We can discuss it later."

"…Later?"

Kain's eyes were shining in the dim lamplight. "You intrigue me, Marche…your clan, too. Little is said, and yet so much is meant with every glance or shrug."

Marche eyed the Ninja curiously. "Your point?"

Kain sighed. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to accompany you and your clan to Baguba."

"What?"

"Listen carefully. I work for someone who has heard much about you and your clan. My employer is very interested in working with you on an upcoming mission. My employer believes that you will both benefit greatly from the mission."

Marche's stare drilled into Kain's eyes, looking for any possible clues to the Ninja's motives. As usual, there were none; just two pools of unreadable green.

He paused, then shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I can't allow you to travel with us."

Kain looked shocked. "Oh?"

"There are too many risks involved in what we are doing. I don't want to wrap up any other innocent people in my mess. I'm sorry, but you have to tell your employer that I said no." He smiled uneasily and handed the Ninja a small sack of gil. Without saying another word, he turned back and went to his clan.

Kain watched him leave, then smiled beneath his veil. After making sure no one was watching him, he turned and hurried out into the chilly night air. His employer would need this new information tonight. For Her plan to work, things would need to take shape quickly.


	12. Rifts

**A/N: **This will be short, because you want to get to the chapter. I understand. You've waited a long time for this. Go ahead and enjoy (I hope.) Just don't forget to review, please.

Oh, and I don't own FFTA. I hope you know that.

* * *

**Twelve: Rifts**

It took a full day of dusty travel to reach the land-side of Baguba Port from Sprohm. By that time, the eve of Bardmoon was nigh. Marche decided it would be best to rest another night before beginning their search for Llednar's base. The clan agreed heartily and sought shelter at the Inn of the Wandering Jester, on the western edge of the city, for the night. They fell asleep in peaceful silence.

The next morning, Marche was abruptly roused by a constant, rhythmic thudding that pounded against the walls of his room and reverberated through his head. He swatted errantly at the air above his head, mistakenly thinking someone was playing a trick on him. The thudding continued. With an irate groan, he rolled over and sat up on the edge of his pallet, clutching his head. It was an even worse feeling than having a hangover, and more persistent yet. He didn't like it very much at all.

Blinking the drowsy feeling away from his eyes, he looked around. In the dim light afforded by the lone, grimy window above his head, he saw the chamber pot in the corner rattling in time with the pounding. Thankfully, it was empty, or the sloshing sound and the thudding in combination might have been enough to make him sick.

He stood and grabbed the nearby chair to steady himself against the disorienting effect of a headache. The wood shivered beneath his fingers as he held it tighter. The pounding continued to come, as if in a wave, hitting Marche's chest with almost absurd power. He clutched his chest, sure that his heartbeat would be thrown out of sync. He was relieved to feel it functioning normally.

Hastily donning his Paladin's robes but ignoring the unwrapped turban draped over the table, Marche opened the door of his room and looked out into the hallway.

The world seemed to be shaking right in time with the pulsing force. Timber beams that held up the roof of the hall shivered hazily, leaving an unfavorable impression on the Moogle architects who had designed the inn. Stray stones, brought in on the sandals and robes of Marche's clansmen, skittered helter-skelter over the earthen floor. It was here that Marche's eyes met a pair of Viera and NuMou feet. Tosca and David, themselves haphazardly dressed, stood along the edge of the hallway. Tosca, in a fit of seemingly irrational logic, clutched her bow in her hand, but had no quiver or arrows on her person, or in sight. Seeing Marche peeking out of his doorway, she asked, "D'you know what this racket is?"

Marche shook his head. "Not a clue."

"It started at sunrise this morning," she said matter-of-factly. "I'm shocked you didn't wake up until now. David was out here not a few moments after me."

"I am a light sleeper, Tosca," David whispered sheepishly, cringing as another thud caused the very inn to shudder. Tiny chunks of plaster fell in front of his face and landed in some semblance of a pile at his feet. He sighed and yawned. "Though I can't imagine everyone else being asleep for much longer."

"They probably won't be." Nume and Sharu walked out of a room further down the hall and came to meet the rest of their awakened clan members. The thief's nimble hands were in his pockets, nervously clutching at the fabric of his breeches. It was as sure a sign as any that he was unnerved. Sharu, ever clutching his smooth staff, stood behind him in the shadows of a closed door. He had somehow managed to remember to wear his enormous hat in the midst of everything else.

Nume's next question was heralded by another shake. "Is it some kind of earthquake, or something?"

David shook his head. "It's too rhythmic for that. There's a pattern to the shakes, very specific, not random, as in a natural occurrence."

"It's almost like a drumbeat," Sharu's quiet voice interrupted.

David nodded. "That was my guess, as well."

Tosca's mouth set into a familiar frown. "I'm going to personally kill whoever's playing the infernal thing, if that's the case."

"But what drum could make that big a noise?" Nume asked as another tremor shook the hallway.

David shrugged and looked at Sharu. He, too, shook his head.

"I say we talk to the innkeeper," Tosca said. "Maybe we can get our money back. He promised us a great night's sleep, after all." She snorted indignantly. "Some guarantee that was."

Having thought of no better idea himself, Marche led the clan down the hallway, carefully ducking under the trembling support beams, and into the common room of the inn.

The common room was deserted. The steadily brightening light that filtered into the room through the windows was interrupted by indiscriminate shadows outside, whom Marche glared at sullenly. Oddly, they all looked rather small...

His train of thought was interrupted by a deep chuckle that came from far behind him. He turned and saw the portly innkeeper standing behind the bar, scrubbing glass mugs with a stained rag. The innkeeper glanced up at Marche and his clan with bloodshot eyes before going back to work. "Aren't you kids goin' 'ta join the party?"

"Party?" Tosca blurted incredulously. "What party?"

The innkeeper began to idly arrange some mugs on a shelf. "You don't know?"

"We wouldn't be asking you if we did!" she spat back.

"No need to be testy," David whispered gently. Tosca glared at him in reply.

Sighing brokenly, the inkeeper walked out from behind the counter, revealing the girth of his body, barely covered by a stained apron. "The first day of Bardmoon is festival of celebration in Baguba," he explained. "Even though port business has attracted residents from other places, the majority of folk here are Moogles." He shuddered as the sentence ended, but whether it was because of his feelings about Moogles or another tremor-inducing drumbeat was unclear. "Anyway, Bard's Eve they call it, and it's a Moogle national holiday. A tribute to Famfrit, it is."

"So this...festival...involves a giant drum?" Marche said. "Is that about right?"

The innkeeper chuckled again, much to Marche's annoyance, and leaned against the counter, his pickled fingers staining its polished surface with oil. "Boy, you have no idea, do you?" He stroked his chin for a split second, then went over to a door in the back of the room. Taking a key from a ring that was belted to his waist, he took a padlock off the door and removed the locking bar. "Here," he said. "Go up to the roof and have a look-see for yourself."

Marche looked uneasily to the rest of his clan. Their bewildered but eager looks convinced him to take the innkeeper up on his offer. With unnecessarily cautious steps, he navigated the maze of tables until they reached the door. Grimacing in preparation for what lay beyond, he pulled the door open by the handle.

He was immediately assaulted by an unimaginable tumult of music, noise, and the cacophony of many voices talking over each other. The smell of smoked meat and fresh fruit hung thickly in the air, an appetizing smog that set the mouth watering. As Marche, Tosca, David, Sharu, and Nume ascended the thin stair, the sounds and smells grew ever stronger, until the group reached the last step and set foot on the roof of the inn. Quicker than even he anticipated, Marche was leaning over the parapet, gazing wondrously at the scene.

Though he could not have seen it by night, the Inn of the Wandering Jester was actually perched on a rise, as were all the buildings of the outer rings of Baguba. The city's epicenter, the Mar Ivalissa, sparkled like a jewel in an ivory stone. Around its keyhole-shaped shore, the ancient Moogles had begun to build their city. The buildings nearest to the water were arranged in a tight semi-circle, bounding the Mar Ivalissa until it joined with Oceana Ivalissa. From there, the buildings spread outward in rings of ever-increasing size. Between each ring, and between each building in the ring, streets shot outward like the spokes of a carriage-wheel. And so, from Marche's vantage, it appeared like a half-circle of blindingly white, marble squares arrayed in shockingly neat formation, which extended all the way from the water's edge to the boundary of Materiwood in the north, the Jeraw Sands in the west, and the marshlands surrounding the Ulei River to the south. Strangely, there was no retaining wall surrounding the city; rather, a huge wall rose out of the middle of the arc, at least three stories taller than the tallest building on either side of the wall. Its shadow in the early-morning sun stretched five blocks west at its smallest point, and nearly ten at its widest.

This orderly scene seemed incongruous in light of the chaos that was erupting in the streets. There was a circular space set back from the wall about ten blocks–only four blocks from the edge of the city, and a measly two from the Inn on whose roof Marche stood–which seemed to be a public square. Here, it was easy to identify the source of the constant thudding. A drum, it was plain to see, had been situated in the center of the square. It was massive, at least as big as the houses surrounding it, and it was being struck in time by a great contraption which stood next to the drum. It was a sight to behold, especially to a world-weary traveler like Marche.

Around this drum, a multitude of figures danced, shouted, and sung, creating the unrelenting din that had attacked Marche's ears as soon as he had exited the inn. Vendors had set up shop in the shadowy corners of the area, and smoke perfumed with the smell of roasted panther and salted marlboro twisted lazily away from tent-tops and into the blue sky above.

"It's...marvelous," David breathed, sounding inebriated on the wine of sweet discovery.

"It's something," Tosca agreed. As she spoke, the contraption pounded the drum again, and the beat clattered chips of marble on the roof. Tosca rubbed her temples with gloved hands. "I just wish it could be a quieter something."

"No, it seems to fit," David muttered, enraptured. Marche could almost see the cogs of the NuMou Sage's mind turning at a frenetic pace. "Moogles are energetic and joyous by nature. A festival like this makes perfect sense in their culture."

"I don't care if it's energetic or not," Nume interrupted, "but does it have to be so infernally _loud_?" He spat the last word with particular distaste, of which Tosca heartily nodded her approval. Sharu was noncommittal.

While the conversations of his clan-mates had interested him greatly, Marche's eyes were soon drawn to the multitude gathered in the streets. For it was not just the square that was filled with a mass of people; the revelry had spilt into the surrounding streets, and veins of activity took root for several blocks. He watched it all with a contented smile on his face, until, in dismay, he realized how unfamiliar to him the expression had become. How long had it been since he had really enjoyed himself? ...The days were incalculable. Had his vendetta with Llednar really taken him this far from himself?

Out of the mists of his thoughts came first his eyes, then his ears, and then the rest of his senses. His desire to observe renewed, he leaned over the parapet and looked at the street below. As he had earlier observed, there were Moogles dancing and singing right outside the door to the inn. He watched them for a time, until from the top of his vision, two figures entered the scene. They were Moogles, but they appeared far less interested in partying than they were with reaching the door to the inn. Finding this odd, Marche squinted at the two. To his surprise, the two suddenly looked up at him and waved. It was Montblanc and Gustav! As they rapped on the door, Marche turned from the parapet and took the stairs two steps at a time.

David, who had been in the midst of an elaboration on his understanding of Moogle culture from an obscure, ancient text, looked up with a start as Marche brushed past him, and watched bemusedly from behind his half-moon spectacles as Marche disappeared down the stairwell.

"Well, I have never thought of myself as a prodigious lecturer, but I never thought someone would walk out on me."

Tosca got up and went to the stairwell. "I just didn't want to be the first."

**

* * *

**

Marche found the two Moogles sitting together at a table in the center of the great room, clutching cups of cold tea and munching on biscuits that were huddled together on a tray in the center of the table. He belatedly realized he hadn't had breakfast yet.

"Marche, kupo!" Montblanc chirped. He looked chipper, and his red antenna bobbed enthusiastically as he stood on his chair and waved. "We have exciting news to tell you!"

"Kupo exciting news," Gustav agreed, swallowing a last bit of biscuit. "Would you like to hear it?"

"Of course." Marche pulled up a nearby chair, collapsed into it, and downed a biscuit. A cup of cool tea was delivered promptly by the innkeeper, who soon returned with several more cups for David, Tosca, Nume, and Sharu, who sat at a nearby table, facing the Moogles. A plate of biscuits was soon delivered to them as well. The clan settled into breakfast and listened as the two Moogles told the story of their morning adventures.

"We knew beforehand that the festival was going to be happening this morning," Montblanc began. "It's a national holiday, after all, kupo! Anyway, we left really early this morning, before the sun was even up over the wall. The crowds had already started to gather in Square Celebrado."

"That's where they put the kupopo big drum!" Gustav interjected.

"Yes, it is, kupo. In any case, the streets were packed with people headed to the square. It was kupo early, but they found their way by torchlight and staff-light. Most of them were already drunk, so it was harder than it should have been to work our way through the main thoroughfares and into the side streets, kupo.

"Once we did that, kupo, it was fairly easy going. Security in the residential part of the city is notoriously lax, and we didn't even meet a single patrol on our way to the South Gate."

"Why is that?" David inquired. "In a city this size, and with a population so..." he paused to find the right word "...so rowdy, wouldn't it make sense to have a bigger police force?"

"We're not rowdy all the time, kupo!" Gustav returned, mildly incensed. "Only on special occasions. The city is normally quiet, peaceful, and clean. Not at all like that dreadful Bangaa city, Sprohm–" Gustav looked up with a start as Lidenbok staggered into the great room. "No offense, kupo."

"None taken, Gussstav," Lidenbok responded gruffly. He grabbed a mug of tea and leaned against the wall, listening with only mild interest as Montblanc continued his story.

"So we came to the South Gate. We could have passed through the gate kupo easy anyway, cause we're Moogles, but we preferred not to be seen, in case the guards were on Llednar's payroll.

"But we needn't have worried. The guard was passed out, probably kupo drunk. We slipped right by him and through the gate." Montblanc took a liberal sip of tea before continuing. "There's a much larger military presence in the industrial part of the city, what with foreigners coming and going all the time, kupo. Fortunately they make fairly regular rounds, so Gustav and I managed to avoid them by taking a roundabout route, kupo."

"We couldn't risk asking someone for directions, kupo," Gustav chimed in. "They might have been Llednar's spies."

"Sure," Nume agreed. "That'd be the smart thing to do." Sharu nodded his agreement.

"So how'd you find the warehouse?" Tosca asked.

"Well, it had to be big, _kupo_ big. And it had to have close access to the water, kupo, since that's where all the airships land. We found it kupo quick. It's right off the main path from the east gate."

Marche considered this quickly. They needed to get to the warehouse fast, but just how fast did they need to be? It seemed unlikely that Llednar was in the city. Marche wasn't sure why he thought this, except that he was almost certain that it was so. He attributed it to his disturbing new powers and took a perturbed bite of biscuit. It suddenly tasted dry, and he set it on the table in disgust. He suddenly had the urge to leave.

"We should get going," he murmured decisively. Raising his eyes, he looked to Montblanc and Gustav. "You know the way back?"

They nodded in unison. "We know it kupo well!" Gustav squeaked.

Marche turned to David. "Pay the innkeeper, and thank him for breakfast." David nodded as Marche turned to Tosca. "Wake up the others and tell them to grab breakfast on the way out. We leave ten drumbeats from now." A wry smile flickered across his face before he turned and walked down the hall to his room.

Eight drumbeats after the meeting in the common room of the inn, Clan Ragnarok, led by the small, furry forms of Montblanc and Gustav, were winding their way through the grid-like streets of Baguba. The butt of Montblanc's Outsider protruded casually from under his belt, but Gustav flexed his iron-spiked knuckles anxiously as they peered around a corner. Montblanc waved his arm and the clan surged forward, disappearing as quickly as possible down another side street.

Behind Montblanc and Gustav, Marche walked, seemingly unhurried, with his twin Excaliburs belted idly to his side, the train of his turban flowing out from his head like a ghost. Behind him, Tosca gripped her bow readily, not trusting in the surreal quiet and cleanliness of the streets, underscored by the faint staccato of the distant drum. David, beside her, leaned heavily on his Zeus Mace with each step, his breathing heavy.

Azimov was paying little attention to the progress of the journey, instead studying the stones with which the buildings of Baguba were erected. He collected a few hurried samples in one of the pouches that hung from his Alchemist's robes before being brutishly hurried on by Lidenbok's lizardly hiss, made scarier than necessary by emanating from beneath a dragon-like helm. The twins, David and Henri, brought up the rear guard, their blades naked and ready, keeping one eye always on Matilda, who walked just ahead of them with a nervous quiver in her step.

Gustav and Montblanc rounded yet another corner, and suddenly Marche found himself standing next to the immense wall he had viewed from the roof of the inn. He looked up and marveled at its enormity. It seemed to bite the sky with pearly white parapets for teeth. All the way up, it was smooth as marble, without so much as a single stone out of line.

"All this without magic," David whispered. There was more than a hint of awe in his voice. Not even the outer wall of Cadoan, gleaming with magical ivy, could surpass the awesomeness of this, the crowning achievement of Moogle engineers.

Abruptly the group halted. They had been walking in the shadow of the mighty wall for quite some time, so long, in fact, that the sight of sunlight streaming through the half-opened doorway to Baguba Port was a shock to their eyes.

The sunlight revealed the tiny body of a Mog Knight, asleep at his post, his limbs flailed out unconsciously in all directions. It was an amusing sight, but no one laughed.

"Come on, kupo," said Montblanc. "It's not too much further now." And with that he disappeared behind the doorway, his shadow visible for a fleeting instant in the threshold.

Gustav, Marche and the rest followed without hesitation.

The Port was blindingly bright and utterly un-busy. Buildings and streets and yards stood silent and unoccupied. The underlying thump of the drum was thankfully replaced by the calming hiss of the Mar Ivalissa lapping up against the paved shoreline in the distance.

"Llednar's warehouse is at the end of this street, kupo," Montblanc said. His voice was noticeably quieter. "We need to be careful. Gustav and I saw a military patrol earlier. I'm praying to Famfrit that we don't get surprised by one here."

And so, cautiously, Clan Ragnarok proceeded down the street, stopping at each crossing to make sure no patrols were present. In this way they made it all the way to the shore, where the constant lapping of waves washed over the clan, its serenity competing with the disquiet in their hearts and minds.

The warehouse was larger than any they had seen, in the city or in the Port so far. It rose up three stories over a large area at the back, and the rest was two stories. It continued lengthwise for three blocks and, from what Marche could see, it also encompassed the two blocks leading to the sheer drop-off where stone met ocean. It was oddly unmarked, with not a single sign over a door like so many others they had seen on their trek.

It was plain, white, inconspicuous. And yet there was something about it that caused a terrible foreboding in Marche's very bones. He felt his blood rise, but he brought it down again, controlled. He would not allow his powers to take him over. Not yet.

"Quickly." Gustav muttered. "This way, kupo." The clan followed him around the left side of the warehouse until they reached a wooden door bolted with steel rivets and an iron padlock.

"This is as far as we got before," Montblanc whispered. "I tried picking the lock, but my lockpicks burnt to a kupo crisp." He pouted.

'There's a protection spell around the lock, and another on the door," Matilda whispered. "That's why your lockpicks didn't work." She paused before looking pointedly at Azimov. "Magic should do the trick."

Azimov nodded. "At your service." The clan parted and Azimov stood at the doorway. After a silent moment, his thoughts accompanied by the waves, he took a piece of chalk from his pouches and drew a complex pentacle on the doorway. Then he drew a smaller one on the back of the lock. As he finished the inscriptions, he murmured a spell under his breath before hurriedly backing away.

Crackling punctuated the stillness, seeming so loud as to surely alert any nearby patrols. The crackling gave way to a billowing, acrid smoke that stung the throat and lungs if breathed in. Then, with a shudder, the door, the padlock, and the iron rivets crumbled into dust at the Alchemist's feet.

"Bravo, Azimov," David whispered.

The Alchemist nodded and stepped back, clearing the path for Marche, who stepped forward. The threshold loomed before him, an elongated triangle of sunlight cutting into pitch blackness. Trepidation crept into his fingers, and he started to reach for his swords. But he did not. Instead, his crackling whisper of a voice said "Light."

Sharu came forward, muttered a few words, and the crystal atop his staff sparkled to life, emitting a fiery red aura. Marche nodded to him and stepped inside the warehouse, walked through the triangle of light, and into darkness.

The flickering red glow from Sharu's staff was an ill comfort in the stifling, dank dampness of the interior of Llednar's warehouse. Cracked pillars rose up without warning; hallways ended in twilit surprise. Time was in flux as Marche led the clan through the twisted passages of the warehouse. A right turn, and then a left, and soon all the walls began to look the same, each pillar like the one they had passed a few minutes ago. Or was it an hour?

Tedium set in quickly and refused to let go. Marche's resolve cracked under the pressure of his aching feet and his tired eyes, and soon it crumbled entirely. He had nothing left to go on–the warehouse was like a maze for which there was no map, nor a visible exit.

The parade of Clan Ragnarok came to a sudden halt as Marche leaned up against an illuminated wall.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to the still air.

There was no reply. Marche closed his eyes and took a breath, exhaled. As the sound of his will escaping him echoed through the warehouse, he felt a prick on his wrist.

His eyes fell to his arm. He raised his wrist and examined it in the light. There was nothing unusual in its appearance. But there, again, came the prick. It was stronger now, almost a pull. Marche felt the power leak into his veins in answer to the pull. Impulsively, he grabbed the staff from Sharu's hand and turned left, following the tugging in his writs. Heeding the call of some unknown power.

No, it was not unknown. For Marche had a nagging suspicion that he knew exactly what awaited him in this warehouse.

The twists and turns came easier and more frequently as the power's pull on him became stronger. A right turn, and now a left. Past a crumbled pillar and ducking into a low hallway. He was unaware of all that was around him, save for whatever lay ahead.

Light, cool and liquid smooth, danced with the shadows just ahead. A white-blue opening in the dark, so stunningly unexpected that he was momentarily blinded. Arm raised to block the light, he advanced with quickened steps and rounded the corner...

...And into a chamber of blazing, intense light. Almost as strong as the noonday sun, but clearer somehow. More pure. The arm fell from Marche's brow, and at last he could see.

The chamber seemed incongruous with the outside of the warehouse. The walls seemed hewn from ancient stone, with primitive hieroglyphs scrawled madly over their surface. The spidery drawings shimmered blue-green. The room was roughly circular, but huge and cavernous. The ceiling above was open to the sky.

But Marche saw none of these things. His blue eyes instead focused on the object hovering above a blazing magical design etched into the floor.

A crystal. The crystal of the Lost One, the Goddess whose existence was shattered long ago. The crystal of Omnira, the last Totema.

But it was not complete. Large sections of the crystal were empty space, with tiny fragments hovering with knife-sharp edges at the border. Tiny pieces, like particles of dust, swirled lazily over the cracked suface. Watery light emanated from the crystal's surface, illuminating the hovering particles like diamonds suspended from the ceiling.

"Exodus Almighty," breathed Tosca. The rest of the clan crept through the doorway to the chamber, awe visible on their faces. They were standing in the presence of a God.

Marche stepped forward. The near edge of the symbol on the ground flared up and sent a shower of sparks skittering across the floor, singing the hem of Marche's robes. He gasped.

David studied the crystal with dazzled fascination. But soon a frown scratched across his mouth.

"The center is missing," he said.

"The Heart," Marche murmured.

"What?"

Marche turned back. "The Heart. Where Omnira's true power lies. The crystal is missing its most vital part."

The Sage was taken aback. "H-how did you...?" He did not need to finish his question. An unnatural, ethereal light shining through Marche's eyes told the story well enough.

The powers of time were taking effect.

Marche turned away from the clan and stepped closer still to the crystal. The edge of the magical barrier glowed like molten lava in the depths of Roda Volcano and gushed sparks and golden flames. But Marche stood transfixed as he gazed into the crystal's shattered mirror-like facets.

The tugging at his wrist grew violently persistent. Marche had not noticed before, but now, even in a half-trance, he winced in pain as he felt something bite his skin and warm blood trickle down his arm. He turned over his arm to look at his wrist.

The hole was ragged but small, nestled closely between the two veins that were clearly visible under Marche's pale skin. Dark blood welled up in the wound. Marche closed his eyes and concentrated on closing the wound, knitting the skin together and dispersing the blood.

He opened his eyes. A small pinprick-shaped scar was all that remained of the wound.

"Marche..." David whispered. Marche turned. The NuMou's face was almost frightened. "When did you..."

Marche glanced down at his wrist, still perplexed. "I don't...I don't know how I did that."

"What are you talking about?"

"What?"

"Look!"

Marche turned slowly and beheld the crystal again. At first, nothing seemed to have changed.

Then he noticed it. A red stained piece the size of a small coin had found it's place on the crystal's surface, completing a near facet. The crystal shone with a renewed brilliance.

A ripping noise caused Marche to whirl, only to be confronted with a strange sight. One of David's pouches was ripped cleanly at the seam, and out of the tear zipped another crystal shard, the first one they had encountered. The entire clan watched in awe as the shard hovered over to the crystal and found its place in one of its many facets.

"You found it."

The clan looked around the chamber for the source of the voice. It had not come from any of them. They backed cautiously away from the entrance, drawing their weapons surreptitiously.

A harsh laugh emanated from the darkness. "Llednar was so worried that he was going to have to search far and wide for you, Marche Radiuju, traveler from the void. But you saved him the trouble. You came to us."

The darkness from the beyond the doorway slowly took shape, in the form of a tall Viera. She wore a dark suit with a midnight-black cape, clasped at the shoulders with a single silver buckle. Her cold gray eyes were the only thing visible from behind a black silk veil, but her silky white hair glistened in a cascading braid behind her head. A black katana threatened in her right hand.

"I am Yvonne," she said with a harsh, bitter voice like the root of the Gyshal Green. "I am Llednar's first lieutenant and a disciple of the Order of Omnus." She held out her left hand. A silver device of an all-seeing eye was emblazoned on her black gauntlet. "And you. You have no idea what you have gotten yourself into."

Marche felt the power rising, pulsing through his veins. He let it do so unchecked.

A strange expression crossed Yvonne's face, a mixture of confusion and uncertainty, until a hard smile showed behind her veil. "So. You have been blessed, as Llednar said you had."

_Blessed? _thought Marche. Tingling sensations grew in his hands as the very air around his body took on a fiery pallor. His knightswords drew in tandem, and the brilliant ring of steel and silver echoed through the chamber. Leather bit into his fingers as it crackled in the heat.

Yvonne took in Marche's glowing visage with a mildly impressed coldness. "You mean to fight me? You _and_ your clan?" She laughed, and like a malevolent smoke, it twisted its way into the bewildered hearts of Clan Ragnarok, staining their courage with a shade of despair. She turned her stony eyes to the door. "That wouldn't be fair at all."

Realization dawned on David's face rapidly, and he turned to the doorway, screaming "To arms! To arms!" as an army began to pour out of the shadowy doorway, preceded by an enormous jet of red-gold fire. Matilda screeched a spell in the ancient tongue, and a radiant Shield spell spiraled out of her staff, just in time to block the brunt of the flames.

Marche glanced at them momentarily before turning his attention back to his adversary. But she had disappeared!

...No. She hadn't. In a blur of speed, Marche crouched and spun his right leg in vicious arc behind him, even as he brought both Excaliburs forward to meet the place the essence of Yvonne's body was meeting its consciousness.

The kick connected first, sending the barely-teleported assassin reeling before the blinding flash of the twin Excaliburs slashed at her back. Her black-wreathed body recoiled in pain, and Marche planted his left hand on the ground and brought his right leg up for another kick.

Black metal smacked the kick away, ringing off the steel of his boot. Yvonne grimaced and bounded effortlessly off the rocky cavern wall, streaking down the ground behind Marche's vision. He quickly stood and spun around, only to meet a black heel in midair. Cold fire lashed into his mind, and he screamed and reeled at the unexpected attack on his mind. Hot blood poured down over his nose and brow like a waterfall, distorting his vision. Icy shock vanished from his mind, and he again focused on the battle.

Yvonne floated in the air, wreathed in the sparkling mist surrounding the crystal. "You bleed yet like a mortal," she hissed harshly. And then she was gone, only to reappear a scant foot away from Marche, the point of her katana biting his cheek. Marche eyed the blade with a mixture of fear and loathing. Blue flames flickered menacingly along its edge. One reached up and kissed Marche's cheek. Blinding, white-hot pain shot through his entire body, and he was thrust backward like a child's rag doll, smashing his entire body against the rocky wall of the chamber with a sickening, resounding crack. Momentarily limp, his body collapsed to the cavern floor.

Someone screamed his name, and a light grew behind his closed eyelids. He felt the restorative magic seeping into his body, knitting together torn flesh and mending broken bones. Fiery Biskmatar magic rushed to the aid of the spell, twisting it and hastening its effects. There was a smell of singed flesh, but strength again coursed through his veins, and Marche was forced to his feet by the surge of power.

Yvonne's cocky smile had vanished, to be replaced by a patently vicious snarl. She glared coolly at Matilda, who had cast the Curaga spell on Marche. The Viera was fearfully clutching her tall staff, frightened by the pure terror that reigned in the face of the foe she faced.

"You, girl, should know better than to interfere in a duel," said Yvonne harshly. The wicked shape of her katana became visible as she threw it toward Matilda's trembling figure. Behind it, Yvonne's sleek shadow of a figure vanished, and Marche realized with a start the terrible thing that was about to happen.

Black fire tinged with gold appeared in his palm on command, and he threw the fireball with all the haste he could summon. It shot forward and expanded into a brilliant sphere of crackling doom. He ran behind it, praying silently that the collateral damage would not be too severe.

In his bizarrely slow vision, Marche watched with trepidation as Matilda's body went slack, faint with fright, just as the void-colored blade reached the place where her head had been. A brown-furred hand materialized around the katana's hilt.

The explosion rocked the entire cavern, resounding a thousandfold in the confines of the cavern. Stalactites clattered down from the ceiling and shattered on the ground, disappearing into nothingness if they came in contact with the incomplete crystal. Marche managed to stand upright, but as the ebony flames dissipated, he saw the his clan and their foes had been scattered throughout the chamber.

There was no blackened, charred corpse in Marche's vision.

The creeping feeling at the back of his neck was replaced by the scream of steel as it slashed down his back. The wound exploded in white-blue flame, and with a scream of agony, Marche fell to the floor.

"Fool." Yvonne's voice mocked him in his miserable pain. "Those tricks are not your own. They should not be used by one so unworthy."

Marche felt the blood. He felt the torn skin, the broken bones, and the muscles ripped asunder. His own strength was rapidly slipping away, like the current of the Ulei River.

"You dare to use the Totema's power so ungraciously in her own presence?" she continued. "Omnira, Goddess of Creation and the Queen of all the Totema?"

His life, his strength, slipping through his fingers, slippery as a blood-soaked hand...

_Ezel. Sarai._ _Oh, gods..._

"Do you know where you stand, Pretender to the Blessing? This cavern is the chamber in the void, beyond the Great Rift. The Crystal's true resting place. As lawless as a Jagd, more sacred than any Temple in all of Ivalice."

Desperate, Marche reached out for the echoes of his fleeing power.

Just a touch of fire, just a taste of life...

"Llednar designed it--the circle that created the portal into the Great Rift. I couldn't so much as come near it, but he...he stepped through it, and he returned with the entrance to the ceremonial chamber."

The power gripped back. Stronger, somehow. More endless, more wise.

Fiercer than anything his old power could have mustered.

Bony fingers gripped something like a sword, flashing so bright that Marche was blinded with his closed tightly shut. Yvonne's cruel voice wavered inconsequentially in the background, but he felt her presence there, strangely feeble, like an icicle in the winter of the real world...in St. Ivalice.

Was that truly the real world?

The answer would have to wait. This power demanded to be unleashed. It burned his fingers down to the bone in Marche's sightless vision.

He rolled with strength not felt, his arm outstretched with speed unseen, the power in his hand blazing with light so intense it threatened to blot out all else.

A line of fire hewed through a mass of shadow.

A single, consciousness-shattering scream sliced through the silent dark.

The dark presence behind him broke apart and blew away like dust in the desert. Her voice hung in the void like loose threads in a weaving left unfinished at the loom by a seamstress called away, never to return.

The power departed from his grasp. Searing light was replaced by cool, comforting dark, and Marche drifted into waiting sleep.

* * *

"He collapsed," David shouted. "Matilda, he collapsed. Quickly, try to revive him—mend his injuries at the very least—and get back here." 

Matilda nodded wearily, her eyes dark like her sooty face, and ran over to Marche's side. David watched for a moment as Matilda tread lightly through the pool of blood that surrounded Marche.

The assassin was nowhere to be seen. David feared the worst, from that red streak down the back of his robes.

The ring of steel in his ears broke his gaze, and he whirled to find and enemy Gladiator advancing. His blade was flickering to life with a Fire Blade spell. David grimaced and raised his mace, intoning, "_Ek cielo na shikai du verus qui deos!_" Purple lightning crackled at the pyramid tip of the Zeus Mace, and David swung the mace downward in an arc of violet and gold.

Ultima Blow connected with the helmet of the oncoming Gladiator, shattering it instantly. Bolts of lightning wrapped the wild-eyed warrior in a vortex of violet light, now blue, now white, until it was so bright that David had to shut his eyes.

The flash ceased, and David opened his eyes. Stained pieces of armor lay scattered on the floor. The body of the warrior had been carried off into oblivion.

"That'sss the lassst of them." David turned and saw Lidenbok standing tiredly, the incomplete crystal hovering behind him. The armor on his shoulders raised and lowered quickly, in time with his breath, and blood dripped slowly from the lance held firmly in his hand.

"Indeed," David whispered.

"Well, we're no worse for wear," Tosca said, her voice hollow. She had seen Matilda, kneeling over Marche's body, shaking as she prayed.

"He'll be fine, Tosca," Azimov whispered.

David nodded in agreement, and slowly, the rest of the clan followed suit, stepping over dead and bloodied bodies and walking calmly over to Marche's side.

_We always say he'll be fine…_David thought. _Finally, Matilda…I begin to understand. I…I'm not sure if he'll ever come back._

* * *

**A/N:** Wow. As long as that took you to read, it took me 15 times that long to write it. The next chapter is shorter. I hope, for my sake and yours, the next chapter is shorter. 


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